


All the Right Notes

by pastelplisetsky



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drinking, Excessive Angst, Kissing in a mosque, M/M, Mentions of addiction, Otabek is 21, Piano!Yuri, Pining, So much kissing, VictUuri, Violin!Otabek, Yuri is 18, but i thought they should be adults just in case, dj otabek, eventually, lots of making out, musician au, otabek is a bad boi with feelings and a violin, otayuri - Freeform, there's no smut, yuri has so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 42,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelplisetsky/pseuds/pastelplisetsky
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky is an incredibly gifted piano player, known for his passionate and somewhat violent playing/compositions. But in order to compete in the famous Eurasia United competition (completely fictional), he needs a violin accompanist. Although he’s dreamed about this competition for years, he’s always worked better alone. Until a little-known, solemn, lovely violinist walks into his life.Inspired by Yuri’s Allegro Appassionato in B Minor, his free skate song.





	1. Moonlight Sonata

**Author's Note:**

> i have a tumblr! see the true extent of my otayuri obsession at pastel-plisetsky.tumblr.com

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I play piano, but know next to nothing about violin. Please give feedback if I got anything wrong.  
> Also, all the songs mentioned in the chapters will be linked in the notes below.

Yuri Plisetsky bent over his piano, jamming his elbows into the keys in frustration. He rested his chin in his hands, long fingers curled over sharp cheekbones petulantly. The random notes echoed jarringly through his dark apartment, but Yuri’s never minded the clash of keys. Indeed, he’s incorporated some unique key-banging into a few (most) of his own songs, to the dismay of certain critics. The crowd always loves his performances, though, and it’s the applause at the end that Yuri lives for, not a stuffy review in Musicians Weekly.

Yuri let his mind wander to his last concert, eyes drifting away from the hastily drawn notes in front of him. It wasn’t one of his own pieces that he had performed; he had been competing at a small, local competition (well, the ten best pianists of Russia had been invited, but it was small in comparison to Yuri’s dreams). He had played Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto 1, in B flat minor, and swept gold for the first time. It was his third time competing, and the previous years he hadn’t even placed. Finally, weeks before this competition, his (former) teacher Yakov burst out that he didn’t have a hope of winning if he didn’t tone down his passion and play the piece how it had been written. Yuri fired him in a rage, committing to finally working alone, but he had taken his advice (painfully).

Now, one month later, Yuri Plisetsky was waiting in agony for the announcement of the 25 pianists invited to the competition of his dreams, the Eurasia United. Only one small thought lurked in the back of his mind: if he wanted to compete, Yuri needed a violinist to accompany him.

And after the humiliation of the last time he’d asked a violinist to accompany him, he wasn’t planning on asking another. One way or the other, he’d get a violinist to ask him this time.

 

After another hour of stewing and hair-pulling, Yuri abruptly stood up and swept his music off the stand of his grand piano. Compared to the rest of the things in his apartment, the piano was a work of art, the only pleasant thing in the room. It was his grandfather’s piano, nearly one hundred years old and still a masterpiece. Yuri loved it dearly, but playing it was always bittersweet. It had sat in his дедушка’s livingroom all his life, until last autumn, when he had passed away, leaving Yuri everything. Yuri’s playing had only improved and “deepened” since the event, according to the dreaded Yakov, but Yuri desperately missed his дедушка at every concert he performed.

Around the rest of the living room was a threadbare couch covered in cat hair, scattered papers and books, half-filled tea cups, and miscellaneous tangled chargers. Yuri had lived in this apartment since his grandfather’s death, and he had been the only soul to set foot in it. The public, nor Yuri himself, would never hear him admit it, but he was lonely.

Yuri used to play with other musicians, but... Yuri forced himself not to think of them. One day, hopefully soon, he would prove to them that he was better than them, better than anyone in the world. 

He shoved his music into his backpack, crouched down to pet his cat a couple times, and ran out of the apartment, calling “I’ll be back soon, Sofia!” over his shoulder.

 

Yuri plopped down on the couch of his favorite coffee place, a disposable cup clutched in his hands. The cold St. Petersburg winter drafted into the cafe every time another customer walked in, and Yuri glared vehemently at every new person. His version of “people-watching.”

A small giggle came from behind the counter, and Yuri looked over to see a barista tittering behind the espresso machine, glancing shyly at him. He thought he knew every barista that worked here, but this one must be new. Meeting his eyes, the brown-haired girl waved, blushing furiously. “What?” he snapped. More giggling.

“Can I get your autograph?” she asked, holding up a pen and a newspaper article of him.

“No,” Yuri said firmly. He didn’t always refuse autographs, but he was especially pissed off today, after his failed session of song-drafting. 

The cafe’s piano, not quite as grand or beautiful as his own, beckoned to him in the corner and reminded him why he came to this specific cafe. He sighed, resigned to playing amidst giggles and ungrateful customers. Yuri played here nearly every day, for free, and he made thousands and thousands of dollars in one night of competition. But the smell of pirozhkis was amazing and the coffee was always perfect.

Spreading his music (Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata) onto the stand, he flexed his fingers and played a few simple chords to warm up, before starting into the song. Like always, he started out gentle, caressing the keys the way Yakov always screeched at him to. Then he got into the emotion of the song, and the tempo sped up erratically, keys slipping under his fingers and beautiful notes wrung violently out of the poor instrument. This song wasn’t meant to be played like this, but Yuri made every song his own, adding the passion and feeling that he wished for in his life to the songs he played and wrote. Nobody ever thought Yuri was lonely when he played piano; it seemed as though he had everything he wanted in his music.

But the song eventually ended, and he slipped out of his passion in the last chords of the song. His fingers lingered on the last notes, blonde hair hanging in his face and obscuring his vision, while a small bout of scattered applause sounded from the cafe. Despite himself, Yuri forced a small smile onto his face. Leaving his music on the stand, he walked down the hall of the cafe to go to take a bathroom break, passing the brunette barista. Her face was completely flabbergasted, and as soon as he passed her he smirked to himself. 

Yuri splashed his face with cold water, something he always did between songs. Sort of like sniffing coffee beans between different perfumes, or eating ginger between different sushi. It was Yuri’s reset button.

But as the droplets slipped off his nose and chin, dripping into the sink, the song continued to echo in his ear, hauntingly sweet and a thousand times more graceful than he’d ever played it. His heart seemed to beat in time with each measure, in a way it never had. After a moment of staring into the mirror wildly at himself, gripping the edges of the sink, Yuri suddenly realized that the song was coming from outside of his head, outside of the bathroom. No longer convinced he was going insane, he breathed a sigh of relief, but before it had left his lungs he gasped again. Who could play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata that much better than him?

Yuri hastily wiped the water off his face and stumbled out of the bathroom, forcing himself to walk calmly instead of sprinting down the hall. Once he could hear the song more clearly, he understood that it was some sort of violin transposition.

After coming around the corner, the violinist came into view. All Yuri could see was the back of him, his black hair shaved in an undercut, the edges of a tattoo curled at the base of his neck, disappearing underneath his black t-shirt. And his muscular, tanned arms, sawing his bow back and forth across the strings like some sort of angel. 

All Yuri could do was wait the five minutes of the song. It would be a sin to interrupt this man’s playing. Yuri leaned against the wall, his long hair falling in his face again, and closed his eyes. The last notes came again, so different than Yuri’s, delivered with a sense of hope, devoid of loneliness. 

After the man was done, Yuri pushed off the wall and kicked the man’s calf. He buckled, and turned around in shock.

“That’s my music you’re playing,” Yuri pointed. His mind was working fast, and he knew what he wanted (the violinist’s skills, of course), but he didn’t know how to get it. Yuri had never tried being nice before.

“Actually, it’s Beethoven’s music,” the man responded. His violin was still clutched in his large hands. Yuri wondered how he handled such a delicate thing.

“Anyway,” Yuri continued, flustered. “What are you doing here?” 

“Is it a crime to play music at a cafe?” The man raised his eyebrows. He said the words quietly, smiling slightly. Yuri noticed he had exceptionally dark eyes. Then he told himself sternly to stop noticing things.

“No,” Yuri answered. “But I don’t know many violinists that just casually bring their instruments everywhere, hoping to come across someone else’s music that they can play.”

“It’s Beethoven’s music,” he repeated. “And I did bring music.” He beckoned with his bow to a folder laying on the ground. “I just love that sonata, and I wondered if I could transpose it...”

“You transposed it...” Yuri stuttered disbelievingly, “just now? Like right now?”

“Yes.”

Yuri blinked. “Yuri Plisetsky,” he blurted out, by way of introducing himself.

He nodded once, without a hint of recognition. Yuri opened his mouth to demand whether or not he’d heard of him, but at the last moment he closed it with a snap, deciding not to be a bigheaded prat for once. The man smiled, looking down at the floor. “My names’ Otabek Altin.” He set his violin down gently on the piano bench and stuck out his hand.

Yuri took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tchaikovsky's piano concerto 1 in b flat minor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0HGIdYCS8o
> 
> beethoven's moonlight sonata (full version, not the one the boys play in this chapter): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU


	2. Inspired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri gets Otabek's number, and Otabek gets Yuri's heart. (short chapter, but I'll publish a longer one tomorrow).

Neither of them got around to playing any more music that day. Every time Yuri’s eyes wandered over to the violin, now in a black case, he wanted to ask if Otabek was a professional. But he didn’t want to ruin anything, so he told himself to wait. All he wanted out of Otabek was a solid accompanist, anyway. Yuri didn’t make friends.

And the more he thought of it, the more certain he was: he wanted Otabek to play music with him. 

After introducing himself, Otabek had asked Yuri to sit down at a table with him. Yuri had hesitated, but agreed, setting his sheet music on the surface in front of him. They sipped their drinks (coffee for Yuri, tea for Otabek) mostly in silence, and Yuri wanted to kick the table (or the violinist) in frustration. 

“Do you live here?” Otabek asked suddenly. 

“In St. Petersburg? Yes.” Yuri paused, then asked, “Do you?” The man’s Russian was perfect, but something about him seemed foreign.

“For the next couple months, yes. But I’m from Almaty.” 

Yuri searched his brain, trying to place the name. He didn’t want to sound stupid, but he had never heard of the place before.

Otabek raised his eyebrows. “It’s in Kazakhstan.” 

Yuri grunted. There was another silence, and Yuri couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up, pushing his chair back with a screech, and gathered his sheet music into his arms. Otabek watched him, looking amused, as Yuri downed his drink and began to walk out the cafe.

Then he whirled around. “Can I-- can I have your number?” Yuri muttered, cheeks flaming. It had sounded better in his mind.

The other man pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “I already wrote it on your sonata.”

Yuri’s jaw dropped. “I never-- that’s not, I mean--” he spluttered angrily. Somehow, the thought of Otabek just writing down his number was infuriating, even though Yuri had already decided to ask him. “And it’s not my sonata! It’s--” Yuri stopped himself, realizing he was repeating Otabek’s earlier words about Beethoven. 

Otabek smirked and stood up, pushing his arms into the sleeves of a leather jacket. “I’ll see you later, Yuri.” He swept past the smaller man, picked up his violin case, and left Yuri gaping in the middle of the cafe.

 

By the time Yuri had gathered his music, along with his thoughts, and marched out the door, snow had begun drifting down from the white winter sky. He tucked his folder under his arm, shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, and pulled his hood up over his hair. During the short walk back to his apartment, Yuri stewed resentfully over the Kazakh man, thinking violent thoughts towards him and his stupid violin. 

Why did he give him his number? He never even heard Yuri play, so it probably wasn’t because of his piano skills. Still, Yuri couldn’t imagine that dark-eyed boy liked him. What, other than his blessed fingers, was there to like about Yuri Plisetsky?

And, Yuri reminded himself vehemently, he didn’t want to be liked. Only admired, and praised, and envied, and accompanied, of course. He needed an accompanist.

As the snow thickened and the gentle flakes became wet clots slicking Yuri’s cheeks, his mind wandered to a fantasy he often thought of: the final notes of an original composition ringing in his ears, as he stands up amid raucous applause, having just performed the obvious first place piece of Eurasia United. His accompanist had always been a faceless shadow in the corner of his fantasy, until now. Now, Otabek Altin stood next to him, bow and violin in his hands while he bowed solemnly. 

After his grandfather’s death, Yuri had stopped cutting his hair, and it reached just past his jaw at this point. He subconsciously ran a hand through it, letting his hood fall back. By Eurasia United, he speculated, it would be long enough to pull back from his face. Just like Vitya, he thought bitterly.

By the time he reached the doors of his apartment complex, wet snow had completely drenched his hair and ran down his back, but the blonde pianist didn’t care. In his mind, he was composing the song of his fantasies, delicate notes of the violin appearing for the first time in his life, weaving through his own chords. He wasn’t ready to admit it to himself, but Otabek’s performance had ignited more than a will to compose. It had ignited his heart.


	3. The Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri takes his time calling Otabek. When he does, stomach butterflies ensue. (or maybe the flu).

One week had passed, and Yuri still hadn’t called Otabek. His number glared at him each time he passed the sheet music laying on the counter. For some reason, he still hadn’t put the sonata back into his Beethoven folder, so the ominous phone number, scrawled in blue ink at the top of the score, was never far from his mind.

But, although he knew he was being irrational, he didn’t want to call Otabek. A million times he cursed himself for not giving the Kazakh boy his number; that way, he wouldn’t have to be the one to call. It was petty, but that was Yuri’s middle name.

Yuri couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that there was something missing in each of his songs. He still hadn’t made any progress on the piece he was trying to compose for Eurasia United, so he had gone back to playing the classics. They sounded nice enough; Yuri wasn’t the best pianist in Russia for nothing. But he no longer felt that he was performing them as flawlessly as he could.

It was the eighth day of The Number, and Yuri was halfway through one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. It was one of his favorite pieces to play, and he hadn’t needed the sheet music in years, but he found himself stumbling over parts of the song. Everything from his hair hanging in front of his face to the slight rays of sun coming through the window was distracting him and… reminding him of Otabek. Not Otabek. Otabek’s song. When had Moonlight Sonata become Otabek’s song?

Finally, he slammed his hands onto the keys, eliciting that satisfying crash of notes, and stood up suddenly, knocking the bench back in an earsplitting crash. It was a good thing his neighbors were fans of his music; otherwise, he’d be gone by tomorrow.

The Russian’s phone was in his hand and his fingers were dialing The Number before he knew what he was doing.

“Hello?”

“Altin. It’s Yuri Plisetsky.”

“Hey.” There was some faint rustling on the other line, as if he’d sat down or something. Then silence.

Yuri realized he was supposed to say something now, seeing as he’d called him. “So, uh, what are you doing?”

“Making lunch.” 

He glanced over at the clock. It was one in the afternoon and he still hadn’t made breakfast. It was one of those days.

“Do you want to play music together sometime?” Surprisingly, the words were cool and confident, not at all the way Yuri’s stomach felt.

“Sure.” He was so terse. 

“Okay, well, when?” Yuri was fighting back frustration again.

“I’ll meet you at the cafe tomorrow, if that works for you.” That was probably the longest sentence Yuri had heard from him so far. It was impossible to figure out what he was thinking; Yuri wished he could see Otabek’s face.

“That’s fine.” As if Yuri had anything else planned. “I’ll meet you at three or something, I guess. I’ll bring some stuff to play?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, but Yuri still couldn’t believe the other man’s ability to transpose scores so fluidly, and so quickly. He didn’t know much about violin, but Victor had never been able to do that…

“I’ll see you then. And, Yuri?” Yuri’s finger hovered over the end call button, but he brought his phone back to his ear.

“Yeah?” The sound of his name sent a flurry of butterflies through his stomach. Yuri wondered if he had the flu.

“I heard you, yesterday. While you were playing.” Otabek’s voice was suddenly less… flat. “It was really beautiful.”

“Oh. Yeah.” A pause. “Bye.” Yuri wrenched the phone from his face, punched the end call button, and hurled it onto his couch. The awkwardness of the conversation passed over to rage, and Yuri wasn’t really sure what his anger was even for. Anger, at this point in his life, was his default emotion to any surprise.

Yuri had received hundreds of compliments, all of them more eloquent than “It was really beautiful.” Experts had called him a genius, a savior of music, a composer who would surely stand the test of time. Other musicians had said he was an inspiration, the only competitor they were both scared of and enraptured with. His fans had likened him to an angel, a pianist sent from the heavens. Yakov never let any of this get to his head, of course, and Yuri had grown tired of hearing gross exaggerations and outrageous comparisons. 

But somehow, Otabek’s brief words etched themselves into his brain. Later, when Yuri sat down to finish Chopin’s Nocturne, it was no longer Otabek’s music that filled his mind, but his voice, saying over and over again, “It was really beautiful.” 

 

“Yakov? It’s Yuri… No, I know. Yes. I’m not going to apologize, Yakov. What?! You--!! Fine. Yes. Anyway, what I wanted to ask was-- will you stop interrupting me, you old man? What I wanted to ask was, can I play you this skeleton of a song I’ve been composing? Well-- no. Yes, maybe just a couple lessons. Not with the Katsudon! No. Fine, Lilia will do. Perhaps Mila. No, I haven’t talked to any of them, since… Why do you care? I’ll see you in a couple days, Yakov. Oh, and-- have you ever heard of Otabek Altin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chopin nocturne (nocturne op. 9 no. 1 in B flat minor) that yuri plays: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtIW2r1EalM


	4. Sakura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flirting in a coffee shop, because I'm very original.

Yuri woke up early that morning, on January 29th. Though his curtains were closed, he could see snow falling through a sliver of exposed window. “Perfect,” he mumbled into his pillow, rolling over. Yuri loved to bitch about the cold St. Petersburg winters, but he knew he could never leave this snow-covered city.

Wearing only black sweats and tiger-print socks, he wrapped his fuzziest blanket (also tiger-print) around his bare chest and shuffled to the kitchen. Although he’d been living on his own for months now, he still woke up unpleasantly early. His grandfather, and later Yakov, always told him that early mornings beget progress, and progress begets success (only Yakov actually said those exact words; Nikolai had said something along the ungraceful lines of, “Waking up early is good for you). So Yuri dutifully pulled himself out of bed every morning at six-thirty, drowned himself in coffee, and set to work at the piano.

Today, he knew he should go back to the piece he’d been working on, but he found his hands wandering through the opening notes of Moonlight Sonata frequently. The edges of his composition peeked menacingly out from his folder of his own works, but he pushed it farther away with his toe (of course, it was laying on the floor amidst the mess). Moonlight Sonata was far from his favorite song, or even his favorite of Beethoven’s, but the music spoke to him differently than before. Yuri knew why, and he didn’t like it, but it made him wonder what else would sound differently coming from Otabek’s violin.

Subconsciously, Yuri’s song morphed into Für Elise, his actual favorite Beethoven song (and most likely everyone’s favorite Beethoven song). It was a love song, and Yuri decided to play it like one, instead of spinning it into a frenzy of anger and loneliness. His fingers softly moved through the measures, sweeping upwards and back down and through the song as gently and lightly as he’d ever played. Even the bridge, which he could easily bring to a level that better suited him, was executed gently. On the last chord, Yuri let his foot off the pedal, effectively stifling the notes before they could linger too long. 

Then he went to get a bagel and a shower.

 

At noon, Yuri decided he couldn’t take waiting anymore. He dressed in presentable clothes (moody black jeans and a comfy green sweatshirt), brushed his hair, and tucked his folder underneath his arm. Halfway down the stairs, he realized he’d forgotten his coat and his phone, so he doubled back to get them, cursing himself under his breath.

The walk to Katya’s Cafe was cold and windy, but the snow had tapered off. Yuri’s breath fogged around him as he jogged briskly down the street. The familiar jingle of bells welcomed him as he swung open the door to the warm smell of baked goods.

“Yuuurriiii!” The barista called out, drawing his name out long. Thankfully, Yuri knew this one, and actually didn’t mind her. She appreciated his music, but he wasn’t sure if she knew he was… quite as good as he was. 

“Anya,” he replied, waving his hand. 

“Want a coffee?” Yuri shrugged, then nodded. He’d already drank two cups of coffee that day, but one more wouldn’t hurt. 

Anya leaned over the counter, her black hair drifting down her shoulders in waves. “There’s a boy here for you,” she stage-whispered, jerking her head to the side. Yuri’s eyes flew open, and he whipped his head around. Sure enough, Otabek was sitting alone at a table, a black backpack and his violin case laying at his feet and a book held in his hand. A steaming cup sat untouched in front of him, along with several spread-open notebooks and pencils.

“What?! Jesus fucking christ, I told him to meet me at three. It’s fucking noon. What the hell--? Stop laughing!” Yuri snapped at her. She was giggling uncontrollably, a hand pressed to her mouth.

What was he supposed to do for the next three hours? Talk to him? 

“Why are you here so early, then?” Anya choked out eventually. He glared at her, and she quailed. 

“Go get me a coffee,” he sneered. She rolled her eyes but picked up a mug.

“He told me he was waiting for you, and to tell him when you came in.”

“Well, for the love of God, don’t tell him I’m here.”

After a couple hesitant moments, Yuri decided to sneak behind Otabek and just quietly play the piano for a bit. Until Otabek was done reading or something. Maybe he’d come early just to read?

Anya handed him a cup full of coffee, and he took it silently. Keeping an eye on the solemn Kazakh, he edged around the counter and seated himself at the piano. Instead of taking out one of the more complicated pieces he’d brought, Yuri decided to play something simple from his childhood. 

One of the first real songs he’d been taught, Mozart’s A Little Night Music always sat in the back of his mind. Yakov had given him a rudimentary abridgment when he was six, and he’d quickly mastered it. There were more refined versions, but, for some reason, he preferred the one Yakov had taught him.

Closing his eyes, he carefully started the song, attempting to play quietly enough to be unnoticeable. The chatter and clanging of silverware didn’t die away, as it occasionally did when Yuri played at the cafe, but instead mingled pleasantly with the simple tune. On the last notes, Yuri seamlessly wove the beginning notes through and started again. 

Twenty minutes passed, and Yuri began to get a bit bored with Mozart. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember the tune of Tchaikovsky’s January, from the Seasons. Yakov loved anything Tchaikovsky, and so Yuri had played the Seasons for a competition when he was twelve. It had been a while; but the winter months had been his favorite to play, and so although his mind couldn’t quite remember how the song went, his fingers did.

Yuri was pleased with how well he could play January after so many years, and February came easily as well. They were basic songs, however, and halfway through February Yuri began to get a bit carried away. The volume and speed gradually increased, until Yuri was interspersing random chords and “improving” the emotion of the song. February died on the keys and somehow made its way to Beethoven’s Sonata No. 5, and the white noise blaring in the background faded away until Yuri could only hear his own music.

“Yuri.” Yuri’s hands stuttered over the keys. “Weren’t we going to play together?”

The blonde Russian swiveled around in his seat. Otabek Altin stood in front of him, a neutral expression on his face. He raised his eyebrows.

“You seemed busy,” Yuri replied, gesturing to the table that Otabek had sat at. Otabek shrugged, and Yuri noticed that Otabek held his violin and bow in his hands.

“Do you want to play something together?” Without waiting for a response, Yuri took out a piece from his folder and carefully placed it in front of him. This piece, unlike the Moonlight Sonata, was written for strings. For his own part, Yuri had transposed it into something that would sound less like the piano imitating the violin, and more of a separate piece that would accompany the violin. Just this once, Yuri wanted to hear Otabek as the one accompanied, instead of accompanist.

“Tchaikovsky. Very Russian,” Otabek remarked, lips twitching. 

“You’re practically Russian, don’t act like I’m full of Russian pride,” Yuri said dismissively. Otabek stepped closer, resting his violin on his collarbones.

“I’m not Russian,” Otabek said firmly, and began to play, training his eyes on the notes in front of him. Yuri’s eyelids fluttered shut, basking in the sound, before placing his own hands on the keys.

Listening to Otabek’s music and creating it with him were two very different affairs. Yuri didn’t let himself get swept away, but instead analyzed what would support the violin best. Almost hushed, he filled in the gaps between the long sweeps of the other man’s bow. Throughout the song, Yuri had to bring his focus back to his own hands, bring his eyes back to his own music. Every note that was especially sweet would drag Yuri’s eyes away until he was staring outright at Otabek. Thankfully, Otabek's eyes were trained on the score.

The song wasn’t perfect, and there were clumsily matched moments, but Yuri was certain perfection would come with time. On the last notes, he became aware of his rapid heartbeat thrumming in his throat, as if he’d run a race. That only happened after competitions, usually.

But Yuri was breathless.

Otabek opened his eyes and slowly lowered his violin, meeting Yuri’s gaze. He, too, was flushed.

“That was good,” Yuri managed to say. At that, Otabek almost seemed to smile. For just a second. 

Yuri wanted to ask him so many questions; they blossomed in his mind as rapidly as the Japanese sakura in spring. But all he could say was, “You need to come to Yakov’s with me.”

The man’s forehead creased in confusion, but he shrugged. “Okay.”

 

They sat together again after playing, Yuri scrolling through Instagram and Otabek with his nose shoved in his book. Otabek was practically mute, but Yuri didn’t really mind. 

“What are you reading?” 

“Something for class.”

Yuri choked on the sip of coffee he’d just taken. “You’re in university?” He rasped out.

Otabek looked up, concerned, at Yuri coughing. “Yes? I’m here for the semester.”

Yuri finished coughing, wiping his mouth. “I didn’t know that. What are you studying? You must be a music student.”

Otabek shook his head. He slipped a pencil in his book and closed it, apparently resigned to the conversation that Yuri persisted at. “Majoring in English Literature. My mother’s first language is English. I speak it well.”

“I’m terrible at English. Languages in general, really.” Now that Yuri had decided he liked Otabek, opening up and rambling about anything, just to fill time, was easy. “I used to play music with this Japanese guy, so I know a bit of that, and Yakov wanted me to learn Italian just for background knowledge, you know, Allegro and Diminuendo and whatever.” For a musical genius, Yuri spoke rather flippantly about terms he’d grown up immersed in and knew more intimately than the names of his family members. “But I can’t conjugate for shit.”

The silence that followed allowed Yuri to backtrack through their conversation and remember what Otabek had said. “Wait-- what the hell do you mean, you aren’t a music student?”

Otabek reached for his mug, which was effusing a strong smell of peppermint, and took a long drink. Then he set it back down. “Who’s Yakov?”

Yuri cocked an eyebrow, trying to figure out if he was dodging his question. “Yakov is... was my piano teacher. Well, I guess he’s back to being my piano teacher.”

“That raises more questions than it answers.”

Yuri fingered the edges of his coffee spoon distractedly. “Um, where do I begin,” he mumbled to himself. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted Otabek to know everything quite yet. He knew the solemn boy from Kazakhstan had probably picked up most of Yuri’s background, but for the first time in his life, he was hesitant to show off the extend of his skills. Otabek seemed so humble about his music, and he apparently only played recreationally. What would he think of Yuri’s flashy trophies and extravagant aspirations?

“Yuri?” Otabek’s questioning voice brought him back to the small table in the middle of a noisy coffee shop.

Yuri thought quickly, and then grinned devilishly. “I’ll explain when you come to Yakov’s with me. Just for a lesson. Not even a lesson. A brief exhibition of our potential.”

Otabek leaned forward, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is this a request, or a demand?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moonlight sonata (again, bc it gets mentioned a shit ton in this fic): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU
> 
> beethoven's für elise: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mVW8tgGY_w
> 
> mozart's a little night music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlC3LmsZauk
> 
> tchaikovsky's the seasons (this is the full version, but you can get each song individually if you want: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XOVndSdAq2Q
> 
> tchaikovsky's serenade for strings (note: the title isn't mentioned in the fic, but it's what yuri and otabek play together. there isn't really a piano piece, so use ur imagination): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMfjgyHcIWk


	5. Living Legend of Russia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek is a mystery man, and Vitya and the Katsudon are adorable.

Otabek agreed to going to Yakov’s with him. After nearly twenty goddamn minutes of maneuvering around their schedules (mostly Otabek’s, because all Yuri did was play piano, but Otabek was taking four classes and had a part-time job) Otabek settled on the next Tuesday.

“I only have a morning class that day, so I should be good,” he said, squinting at the calendar on his phone. “Oh, wait, I have to work that night. Will your lesson thingie be done by six?”  

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Sure, my lesson thingie will be done by six. Asshole.” Then he blinked uneasily, not sure how Otabek would take the casual insult. Were they friends yet?

But Otabek just gave him a look and returned to his calendar. 

“So what’s your job?” 

Otabek gave him another look, almost teasing. “I have secrets too. Be patient.”

“How can a job be a secret?” Yuri protested indignantly. Otabek cocked an eyebrow at him and stood up, carefully placing his school things into his backpack.

“I don’t know, Yuri. You tell me.” 

Yuri was almost certain he was referencing his earlier reluctance to give him any more information than “Yakov is my piano teacher.” He couldn’t tell if the other man was annoyed or simply amused, and he felt undeniably frustrated that the secret-keeping was going both ways for the time being. Even if the secrets were petty and teasing.

Yuri nearly always got his way. He was spoiled from being treated like a gifted child all his life, and Otabek seemed to know it.

“I’ll see you in a couple days.” With that, he brushed past Yuri, ruffling his hair as he went, and left the cafe. 

Yuri sat in shock for a second, then stood up violently, knocking his chair back. Enraged, Yuri patted down his hair and seized his piano music.

“You always knock things over when you want attention. So dramatic,” Anya commented lazily, leaning against the counter. Yuri knew she’d be gossiping about this for days with the other baristas.

“Shut up, hag,” Yuri snarled, kicking another chair for good measure before stomping out of the cafe.

 

The next couple days seemed to drag past for Yuri. He spent most of the weekend playing songs he’d already composed, trying to find what he liked best and how he could make his new piece better. Briefly, he considered making an outline of Otabek’s part, but he realized that was probably too forward. He wasn’t sure yet if Yakov would approve of the Kazakh man, or if Otabek would want to play in a competition, or even if he’d get invited to Eurasia United.

Still, an undeniable excitement unfolded in his stomach when he thought about competing with Otabek. 

On Monday, Yuri spent an hour after breakfast laying on his floor in some state of severe music block. He still didn’t know what kind of story he wanted to tell with this song. He always struggled with revealing any emotion through his own pieces; channelling it through others’ compositions, pretending he was simply borrowing passion, was much easier for him. Yuri had composed many, many pieces over his short lifetime, from short lullabies to enthralling sonatas, but only three had been grand enough for him to perform. The first one he had dedicated to his дедушка, and it had won him gold at the most prestigious junior competition in Russia. The second, dedicated to Moscow, and more specifically his old home. The third was a cacophony of ambition and coming-of-age and mourning his grandfather, and Yuri had almost broken down on the stage when he’d played it. Thankfully, it wasn’t at a competition, but a concert at the St. Petersburg Hall of Music. 

He fidgeted restlessly on his floor, crumpling pieces of paper and discarded shirts beneath him. As if on cue, his phone vibrated beside him.

A text from Otabek. _I can’t come tomorrow._

Yuri glared at the screen, multiple angry responses flashing through his mind.

Another text. _Sorry._ And, _I’ll explain when I get back_. Then, _Which will be Wednesday._

So he was a quadruple-texter. Ironic, really, considering his normally limited dialogue. Yuri was mystified and intensely curious as to where he was going, why it was so sudden, what he was doing. 

But instead of dwelling on it continuously for what would turn into the next three days, he picked his ass off the floor and called Yakov.

“Can we reschedule for today? No, he can’t come. Probably not until Thursday or something. What the hell?! No. Fine, but keep those two the hell away from me. I’ll see you in an hour.” 

Yuri hung up, distinctly disgruntled. He thought he’d be practicing with Otabek, and instead he got stupid Vitya and the Katsudon. 

After grabbing his jacket and wallet, he lingered by the door, staring at the last four texts from Otabek. Should he say something? Just to let him know that he knows? But Yuri always kept his read receipts on, so that people would know when he was ignoring them. 

In the end, he decided on a simple _See you Thursday?_ Yuri knew Otabek probably wouldn’t answer the questions he was dying to ask, at least until he came back. Maybe not even then. It seemed to Yuri that he either enjoyed being a mystery or had something to hide.

 

“Yuri!” Victor grinned over his violin. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the fucking Katsudon, perched on the piano bench in Yakov’s music room. Yuuri Katsuki waved sheepishly at him.

Yuri purposefully ignored them both and walked straight to Yakov. “I brought my... song. Or, the idea of it? I don’t really fucking know at this point.”

Yakov held his hand out and took the sheets Yuri was holding. He shuffled through them, giving them a stern once-over. “Too much pandering to this ghost violinist here. You need to take more control during this part,” he tapped the top of the third sheet, “And especially during the bridge. Eurasia United is focused primarily on pianists, you know.” 

Yuri nodded. It was easy to slip back into the routine of compose-and-criticism, Yakov constantly taming Yuri’s music.

“Still,” the old pianist continued. “I want to hear the violinist. Lilia is coming as well; I called her to tell her he’d canceled, and she wasn’t pleased.”

Yuri smirked at that. “Still scared of what she thinks after all these year? Spineless old man.”

“You’d do well to be scared of her, too,” Yakov snapped. Yuri rolled his eyes. 

“ _I’m_ not a violinist,” Yuri protested. 

Victor and Yuuri, who were clearly eavesdropping, made small, surprised noises behind them. Yuri swung around and delivered a withering look. Yuuri shrank underneath it.

“Did I hear you found an accompanist?” Victor asked, seemingly delighted.

A wave of rage threatened to roll over Yuri. “Yeah, no thanks to you,” he retorted heatedly.

Two years ago, Yuri had been invited to compete at Italy’s Molto Grazioso. It was one of the few that required an accompanist, and Yuri was so thrilled to be invited that he hadn’t spared a thought for that small detail. He had assumed Victor, the living legend violinist, would accompany him, his protégé. But before he’d actually asked, Victor had decided on... another pianist. The older Russian had come across a video of Yuuri Katsuki playing one of his compositions flawlessly, and flew immediately to Japan, despite the protests of literally everyone in the Russian music world.

It still rankled, even though Yuri knew he shouldn’t have taken it as an insult to his skills. It was obvious, with their matching gold wedding bands, that Victor had fallen head over heels in love with the Japanese pianist. Although he certainly was talented enough to compete, it was the main reason why Victor had first wanted to accompany him.

Victor frowned. “Ah, Yuri, you still haven’t forgotten that? If--” 

“Shut up!” 

Neither of the two were competing anymore, but frequently performed their music at the St. Petersburg Hall and around Europe. Yuri couldn’t see the difference between competing and performing, but Victor always said each competition took a piece of him until he finally decided to stop.

Victor and Yuuri shared one of those infuriatingly intimate looks and seemed to come to some sort of understanding. “Well, Yakov, we’d best be going. Christophe is coming for dinner, you know,” Victor said, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Good luck with your violinist, Yuri! Call me if you need anything!”

Yuri glared at them until they were gone. 

“Alright, Yuri, let’s hear your piece so far.”


	6. Dreams of Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very tired Otabek and a very nervous Yuri do some falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this switches to present tense about halfway through, intentionally.

The next Wednesday, Yuri received another slew of texts from Otabek. 

_I’m back._

_Do you want to play music together?_

_Sorry again for not coming Tuesday._

Yuri slouched back down on his couch and stared at the texts for a couple minutes, unsure of how to reply. 

He’d spent three hours at Yakov’s on Monday, and almost five hours on Tuesday, so he’d declared Wednesday his “day off” from music. Like that would happen. Yuri played Moonlight Sonata on repeat the entire morning.

While trying to come up with a reply, a call from Otabek popped up on the screen. A firework of anxiety burst in Yuri’s stomach. What the hell was he calling him for?

“What,” Yuri snapped into the phone, trying to mask his nerves.

“Is-- is that how you normally greet people on the phone?” Otabek asked incredulously.

Yuri quickly stifled a snort of laughter. It wasn’t that funny, he wasn’t sure why he was laughing. “Yes.” Then, before he could stop himself, he decided to go for it and ask, “Where were you?”

“In Kazakhstan.” 

Yuri couldn’t believe that he’d actually answered. Then he couldn’t believe his answer. “Why in fuck’s name were you in Kazakhstan?” He pulled his laptop off the ground and quickly googled where the country was. “Jesus Christ, Otabek, that’s like a six hour flight.”

“I know, I just took it,” Otabek responded. Yuri finally picked up on the weariness in his voice.

“But you want to play music?” he demanded skeptically. He could practically _see_ the other man shrug through the phone.

“Yeah. Is that weird?” Otabek asked, like he was actually curious. Yuri wasn’t really sure what he was asking.

“Not really,” Yuri replied, thinking of all the nights he’d stayed up playing music. All the days he’d spent playing music. Not even for pleasure, just because it was as necessary as breathing to him. He only realized how much he needed it when he wasn’t doing it. “Not at all.”

There was a brief silence, but they were both plainly deep in thought. Sofia meandering over and curled up on Yuri’s chest, purring gently. “Want to come to my apartment?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Yuri texted him the directions, then frantically jumped up to clean his flat.

 

“It’s so messy.” Otabek carefully tiptoed around the designated piles of random shit that Yuri had shoved together on the floor.

“You’re an asshole, Altin. I’d like you to know that I cleaned for an entire twenty minutes before you came.” Yuri sat on the couch, his legs pulled up to his chest.

He’s never seen Otabek’s hair so tangled, black strands falling down his forehead. Or his eyes so sleepy. Yuri feels a small stab of guilt for dragging him to his apartment, but he pushes it back down. It was Otabek’s idea, wasn’t it?

Otabek sits down on the floor in front of his, leaning gently against the coffee table. His violin, which he unbuckled from its case as soon as he walked in the door, lays across his lap.

For some reason, Yuri reaches a foot over and nudges his leg. “Hey, dude. You gonna make it?”

Otabek blinks a couple times and looks up at him foggily. “Just waiting for you to startplaying, Yuri.” 

Yuri snorts. “Yeah, right. You were totally falling asleep.” But he scurries over to the piano anyway. He glances at Otabek out of the corner of his eye. Fingers curled so delicately around his bow, violin held aloft, eyes concentrated on nothing.

“Do you even know what I’m gonna play?”

Otabek lets the tension out of his wrist and looks up. “I assumed you were going to play Moonlight Sonata.”

Yuri’s eyes widen, but he tries to pass it off and quickly looked back at the keys. That was exactly what he was going to play. 

He’s tempted to start something entirely different, just to be unpredictable and throw him off, but Otabek looks too tired for Yuri’s usual antics. Calmly, softly, Yuri lets the opening notes roll off his fingers for the millionth time that day and Otabek joins him effortlessly. 

And maybe Yuri’s tired too, because it’s almost like he’s dreaming. He’s never seen music so clearly before; it’s never woven so perfectly with reality. Before Otabek, Yuri wouldn’t spare a second thought for this song. He played it on principle, but to him it was boring. Now, it’s the most captivating sound he’s ever heard. Never once, throughout the entire song, does Yuri look away from Otabek. Thank god he’d played it all morning, or else his hands would be falling all over the place.

Yuri lets the last notes linger, despite himself. “That was _disgustingly_ beautiful.”

Otabek’s eyes flutter open. “You were staring. I could feel it.”

Yuri’s cheeks burn red, and he furrows his eyebrows. “Yeah, well, that’s your fault. Who the hell plays like that, Altin? Beethoven would carry you off and marry you if he could hear that.”

The other man gazes up at Yuri, finally cracking a smile. “I don’t think Beethoven was gay. It’s Für Elise, not Für... Ethan.”

Yuri stares. Then he bursts out laughing. “Jesus Christ, Altin, that was fucking gold. Für fucking Ethan? I’m going to write that song just to prove you wrong.”

Otabek snickers before saying, “Wouldn’t that mean you were gay? Not Beethoven?”

The silence stretching between them is impossibly long.

“I guess so,” Yuri finally says. “Still gonna fucking write it though.”

“That’s the spirit.” Otabek looks relieved.

On a whim, Yuri slides off the piano bench onto the ground and scoots next to the Kazakh man. “Can I touch this?” He taps the violin ever so gently.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Otabek places the bow in his right hand and Yuri takes the violin by the neck.

“I’ve never held a violin before,” Yuri murmurs almost wondrously, looking down the strings awkwardly.

“I can tell.”

“Oh, shut up.” But he lets Otabek adjust his hold and tuck it properly under his neck. Hesitantly, he places the bow on the strings and pulls. “Shit.”

The normally impassive man presses a hand to his mouth to stop his laughter. “Sounds like you just stepped on your cat. Here.” 

Otabek curls his hand around Yuri’s, clutching the bow in both of their hands, and draws the first note of Moonlight Sonata. It’s shaky, and a bit squeaky, but Yuri smiles triumphantly.

“I did it!”

Otabek frowns. “You still aren’t holding it right.” In slow motion, he wraps an arm around the small blonde and grips his other hand, holding the neck of the violin. Then he carefully pinches one of his fingers down on a string. “Do it again.”

This time the note resonates more clearly. It’s still nothing to what Yuri heard earlier. “How do you do it?”

He can’t see the other man’s face, as it’s practically burrowed in his hair, but Otabek seems to scoff softly. “Yuri.” The name is hushed on his lips. “How long have you been playing piano?” The violin, held taut in their arms, slowly drifts down to rest in Yuri’s lap.

Yuri pauses. “Um. I’ve been able to read scores for thirteen years. Play by ear for fourteen.” Normally, he would boast this proudly, but Otabek’s quiet voice humbles him.

“And you expect to pick up violin in a day?” Otabek brushes his hair aside, nuzzling his ear. Electric jolts shoot down Yuri’s spine. “You could play better than me, if you wanted. I think you could do anything if you wanted.”

Yuri sits, stunned, with Otabek curled haphazardly around him. The violin lays forgotten besides them. He expects Otabek to go on after a couple minutes, say something else. But when he twists his head to look at him, he realizes Otabek has fallen asleep, pinned between the piano bench and Yuri’s body.

After a hesitant moment, Yuri rests his head against Otabek’s chest and drifts off to sleep. His dreams are nothing but sonatas and moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STRONGLY recommend y'all listen to this duet, just for some context: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoQ7zI2SeFc


	7. DJ Otabek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's right folks, rolling out the dj otabek. Violinbek and DJbek are one and the same.

Yuri woke up on the couch, limbs askew and hair disarrayed. Weak light filtered through the window in his living room, and he squinted at it suspiciously, trying to place the strange feeling in his stomach. The events of the previous night washed over him in a rush, and he jerked upright, scanning the room for any signs of Otabek.

The man is gone, but Yuri immediately noticed a piece of paper pinned to the coffee table by a disposable cup from Katya’s Cafe. In a messy scrawl that instantly reminds Yuri of the number that he’d left on his counter for a week read: _Had to go to class. I got you coffee._

Like always, he scrutinized it painstakingly for any hidden meaning. Why hadn’t he just texted him? The note wasn’t really necessary. After full minutes of running scenarios through his mind and attempting to decipher how Otabek felt about last night (Was there a last night? Did that count as a “last night” sort of thing?), Yuri threw the note back on the table in frustration and sipped his drink. 

He checked the time on his phone. 7:30, a full hour of sleeping in. He hadn’t realized he was that tired. Yawning, Yuri dragged himself off the couch and plopped down on the piano bench.

 

_Yuri, there’s a concert that Victor and Yuuri will be performing in a week. If you’re still considering your violinist, I would like you to also perform, with him. Especially if he’s inexperienced. Sincerely, Yakov_

Yuri rolled his eyes. _Yakov_ , he jabbed furiously. _Nobody signs a text “Sincerely.”_

He really, _really_ didn’t want to tell Yakov that he hadn’t even asked Otabek about... anything. Hadn’t even _told_ him anything. Yuri sighed and hefted himself up on the counter next to his sink, debating with himself whether he should text Otabek or call him or say nothing at all.

“Otabek?”

“That’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name.”

“...Whatever.” Now Yuri felt even more awkward. “Anyway, there’s some stuff I gotta talk to you about.” Yuri hadn’t meant to be elusive, he just didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. Still, as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew that Otabek would assume it was about their questionable arrangement “last night.”

“Okay. I’m, um, supposed to be in class right now, so if I could call you back...”

“Oh shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll... talk to you later?” Yuri questioned hesitantly.

“Yes,” Otabek replied firmly. “I’ll call you.”

 

Otabek did not, in fact, call him, but instead texted him at six: _I’m outside your apartment._

Yuri gawked at his phone. He hadn’t expected that, but he could roll with it. _Tell the doorman you’re Yakov’s third cousin. I don’t want to go down and let you up._

_Will that actually work?_

_Yes. I told him when I moved in that it was code for, “Yuri doesn’t want to go down and let someone up.”_

Yuri smiled at himself, basking in his cleverness. He loved telling people about the code, especially whenever Mila was forced to use it.

Another texts pops up on his screen. _Lazy._

His grin quickly slid into a scowl. Then he scrambled to find a shirt. 

 

“How does your apartment complex not have a buzzer?” Otabek said. His eyes flicked around the room like he’d never seen it before. Which, Yuri reminded himself, was sort of true. He was hardly conscious last night.

“It’s really old. Like, built in the 19th century kind of shit. There’ve been renovations, but they like to keep the Victorian charm alive,” Yuri replied from his perch on the kitchen counter. Otabek wandered over.

“How do you pay for it?” The other man asked, making eye contact with him. Yuri knew what he was asking.

“I’m a concert pianist.” Yuri would be lying to himself if he didn’t feel a twinge of pride at the confession. “A good one.”

Otabek’s lip twitched. “I guess I already knew that.”

“Thanks.”

“No, like, I googled your name this morning.”

Yuri can feel the start of a blush creeping up his neck.

“Yuri Plisetsky, the Russian Fairy, dances over the keys.”

“Oh my _God_ , Altin.” 

“Did you know there’s a Yuratchka fan club? They call themselves the Kittens,” Otabek teased, his eyes sparkling. Yuri’s faint blush transformed into twin flames on each cheek.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“I watched one of your performances,” Otabek confessed, his voice growing softer. “A couple, actually. The one you won gold for at Russian Nationals. And... one of your own compositions.”

Yuri knew which one he was talking about, which one would float to the surface of Otabek’s searches, which one would make his voice hesitant like that. It had more views than any of his other compositions combined. Песня моей души. _Song of my Soul._ The one he’d performed with faint, faint pinpricks of tears held in his eyes until his final bow. The odd twist of ambition and growing up and the death of his grandfather. The struggle to compose a piece worthy of history during his grandfather’s long battle with cancer.

He kept his eyes trained on his legs, eyes stinging just from thinking about it. 

“Yuri,” Otabek said, at once both gentle and brisk. “I have to work in an hour.”

The smaller man grimaced. He hadn’t even asked him about accompanying him at the concert. “How long will you stay?”

Otabek smiled almost playfully. “I was hoping you could accompany me.”

Yuri raised his eyebrows at the choice of words and wondered if it was purposeful. “What kind of job lets you bring friends?”

 

“You’re a _DJ_?” Yuri asked incredulously, staring at the flashing lights in front of him. Otabek’s face was neutral underneath the brim of his biker helmet. That had been another shock. Back at the apartment complex, Otabek had unceremoniously draped his leather jacket over Yuri’s shoulders and tucked his blonde hair into a smaller matching helmet (“This is my little brother’s, but you’re small enough to fit”) before pointing out his bike parked at the curb.

“What kind of music do you like, Yuri?” Otabek asked, smiling. He placed a hand between Yuri’s shoulder blades and guided him forward to the door. Yuri slapped his arm away, glaring.

“I don’t listen to music. I _play_ music. Specifically, the kind of music that grandparents listen to.” Still, the Kazakh man snagged Yuri’s sleeve and tugged him forward. “Altin!”

“Yuri, what were you going to talk to me about when you called me earlier?”

The thud of heavy bass and faint laughter emanated from the club. Although it was only seven, St. Petersburg was already immersed in darkness. Yuri crossed his arms over his chest and huffed loudly, breath fogged in the cold.

“So, there’s this concert that Yakov wants me to perform at, it’s pretty short notice, but I was wondering if you wanted to, um, also perform? With me? As an accompanist?” It also rushed out in one anxious breath. 

Otabek’s eyebrows shot up. “At the St. Petersburg Hall of Music?” 

Yuri nodded, faintly surprised he knew about it. “Weekend after next. You can pick the music if you want.” He tries to keep the begging undertones out of his voice, butthere’s only a little more than a month until Eurasia United, and he _needs_ a violinist.

“Okay.”

“Wait, really?”

Otabek shrugged. “Sure. On one condition, though.” His smile is downright sinful, Yuri thought to himself. “We’re going dancing tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spring break is ending so I might be publishing a chapter every other day?? I'll try to keep it consistent. Thanks for all the compliments you guys!


	8. DJ Otabek Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of cheesy dancing, some dirty dancing, and a drunk Yuri.

Yuri only felt out of place for a moment, and then he was subconsciously bobbing his head and maybe-not-so-subconsciously clinging to Otabek’s arm. Most of the people in the club were around his age, although they weren’t wearing a coffee-stained leopard-print sweater and jeans (Otabek had refused to tell him where they were going, so he tried to dress for any situation). Boys and girls and everything in between were jumping and pushing and dancing all around Yuri, and they didn’t seem to care who they shoved into.

And the _music_. It blared from all directions, making Yuri’s vision swim and his head hurt. He couldn’t deny that it made him want to dance, though. It was so strange, listening to music without paying attention to chords or rhythm or key shifts.

“Stay close to me,” Otabek spoke into Yuri’s ear. “This isn’t the sketchiest club I’ve DJed at, but people might still mess with you. Don’t drink anything anyone gives you, and don’t dance with anyone.”

Although Yuri had no intention of not following Otabek’s advice, he pouted at being told what to do. “Why can’t I dance with anyone?” He had to shout to be heard over the music.

A hint of a blush rose in his cheeks. “You’re too pretty. And you look... vulnerable. I don’t want you to get harassed.”

“Fuck you, Altin. I’m not _vulnerable._ ” He ignored the pretty part. 

Otabek’s lips twitched. “Not vulnerable. Just watch out.”

With that, Otabek slipped his hand into Yuri’s and tugged him into the sea of bodies. Yuri debated if he should pretend to be angry with Otabek for all the grabbing and touching, but he knew that he wasn’t angry at all. He trusted Otabek, and even liked him, surprisingly. Not in the grudging way that he put up with Yakov and the others, but actually liked him. He wasn’t sure what kind of way he liked him yet, but Yuri shoved that into the back of his mind. He would worry about that later. For now, he was going to try to have a fun night and not give a damn about anything else. 

Otabek finally stopped pulling on him when they were underneath the DJ’s booth. “Stay here,” he murmured directly into Yuri’s ear again. He disappeared for a moment, and Yuri took the chance to look around. Two girls, hair twisting together in a swirl of blonde and vivid blue, were making out in the corner near him, beers dangling from their hands. A boy with a spike through his eyebrow wandered over and smiled at Yuri. He scowled back.

“Hey, dude,” the guy called over. 

Yuri bristled. “Fu--”

“Hey,” Otabek replied from behind Yuri, in his typical neutral tone. Apparently the boy had greeted Otabek, not Yuri. “How did everything go last night? Sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“Nah, it was fine. Is everything okay with--” the other boy cut off abruptly, and Yuri swung his head up to look at Otabek shaking his head rapidly.

“What? What happened?” Yuri demanded. Otabek shot the boy a look, and he sank back into the crowd at the speed of light.

“Nothing. Well. I don’t want to talk about it.” Otabek’s dark eyes met Yuri’s, and he was the one that seemed vulnerable in that moment.

Yuri nodded. “Okay.” Impulsively, Yuri grabbed Otabek’s hand to try and initiate some sort of dancing. “Uh, how do you do this?”

Otabek rolled his eyes. He took Yuri’s other hand and shifted him a bit closer, tucking him close to his chest, then pulled him back into the crowd of people. 

“The jostling isn’t so bad after a while,” Otabek yelled into Yuri’s ear, then started to dance. How could he dance and not look like an idiot at the same time? The only dancing Yuri ever really saw was at the annual Russian Nationals banquet, and it always got progressively more ridiculous throughout the night. The Katsudon and Vitya always got wasted, but their dancing seemed to improve the more they drank...

A flash of insight struck Yuri. _Alcohol._ That was a great idea! Since he was acting like a normal teenager for the night. This past year’s banquet was the first one he’d been old enough to drink at, but Yuri hadn’t really cared at the time.

Otabek twisted an arm around Yuri’s waist. Yuri leaned into Otabek and shouted, “Is there any alcohol here?”

Otabek rolled his eyes again. Yuri was really starting to hate that. “Yes, Yuri, there’s alcohol here. It’s a club. But you shouldn’t be drinking..” Still, Otabek was pulling him through the crowd once again, keeping his grip on Yuri’s waist. The casual touching was foreign for Yuri, but he was still adamantly _not thinking_ about feelings tonight.

Otabek handed him something. “I told you not to drink anything anyone gave you, but this is just a beer. Not even opened yet.” 

Yuri raised his eyebrows. “Otabek, I definitely trust you not to roofie me.”

The other man leaned down and brought his mouth level with Yuri’s ears. “Why?” he asked, and Yuri almost slapped him before he realized Otabek probably wasn’t talking about roofies. “Why do you trust me?” 

To Yuri, it sounded a lot more like, _Why do you want me to be your accompanist? Why can’t you stop thinking about me_? But those were the questions Yuri kept asking himself, since the moment he had heard Otabek wringing out the Moonlight Sonata in Katya’s Cafe.

Yuri set the can down and wound his hands into Otabek’s black t-shirt, effectively pulling him even closer. Dancing had suddenly gotten a lot easier, and he hadn’t even touched his drink. “Because I like you,” Yuri whispered into Otabek’s chest, quiet enough that he couldn’t even hear himself speaking. But the Kazakh man seemed to understand anyway, tightening his grip on Yuri. 

Otabek spun him around like swing dancers in the twenties, then dipped him like they were ballroom dancers in a Victorian novel. They did the twist, the macarena, the cha cha slide, and Otabek even tried to get him to do Gangnam Style (Yuri refused, horrified). For the next hour, Yuri alternated between ridiculous dance moves and taking gulps of his drink, until he was staring at the bottom of the cup. Otabek occasionally vanished back into the DJ booth, and Yuri would go find some nice person to refill his drink. Their dancing got sloppier and dirtier the longer the night went on.

It took a couple tries, and more than a couple drinks, but Yuri eventually twisted around, grinding his ass into Otabek. After a little gasp, Otabek gripped Yuri’s hips, entangling his own hands in Yuri’s leopard sweater.

“I feel like I’m sinning just by looking at you,” Yuri giggled into Otabek’s ear. He craned his neck around to bite the other man’s ear. Otabek pulled him back and examined his face suspiciously.

“How much have you drank? Have you been getting more alcohol? Yuri!” Otabek groaned, exasperated. 

But the world was growing fuzzier, and Otabek’s words blurred together in Yuri’s ears. “I think the lights are getting brighter,” Yuri mumbled into Otabek’s neck. He slid his hands under the other man’s shirt, attempting to write a mental note to his sober self to try this sometime, if he could ever get the courage. Otabek pulled his hands away, concerned.

“I think I’m going to take you home.”

“This music is _really_ loud. If I go deaf, I’m suing you. My career is expensive.”

“Yeah, I’m taking you home.”

“But you’re working,” Yuri slurred. Otabek sighed and took his hand, yanking him through the crowd.

He stumbled after Otabek, nearly falling out of the club. Otabek said a couple words to the bouncer under his breath, and he nodded back at him.

“Otaaa. Otabek. Stop it,” Yuri protested as his hands were shoved into sleeves and the helmet forced back on his head. Otabek ignored him, situating him in front of him on the bike this time.

“Keep your legs in. Try not to wiggle too much,” he instructed, tucking Yuri close.

The ride passed in a blur, and Yuri did his best to string his thoughts together. What seemed like seconds later, Otabek was hauling him into the apartment complex, arm still wrapped around his waist.

“Yura, let’s--”

“ _Yura?_ Did you just call me Yura?”

“Nope.”

“I think you did.”

“You’re drunk.”

Yuri squinted his eyes at Otabek, who was rifling through Yuri’s pocket for his apartment key, and sighed dramatically. “You’re right.” Otabek finally found the key and unlocked the door. “Want to play music together?”

Otabek snorted. “I don’t think you could--” Yuri was pulling him forward into the apartment, hands grabbing at his hair, his shirt, his arms. He stood on his tiptoes, hell bent on kissing the daylights out of Otabek.

The other man let out a muffled noise of surprise and gently extricated a hand, pressing it to Yuri’s cheek. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Yuri.”

Yuri gaped at Otabek, his intoxicated mind working overdrive to understand what he’d said. “The only thing I’d regret,” Yuri mumbled, sinking to the floor of the kitchen. “Is _not_ kissing you.”

Otabek followed him down to the floor, crossing his legs. “Yura--”

“You said it again.”

Otabek flushed, staring down at his hands tangled in Yuri’s. Yuri leaned his head back on a cupboard and stared at the ceiling.

“I don’t have any excuse. I’m not drunk. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Somehow, Yuri found himself nodding. “Okay.” He sank even further onto the floor, pressing his face into the ground. “Just don’t leave.” 

Otabek’s face grew concerned again. “Where’s your room? You need to go to bed.”

“I can sleep just fine right here.”

Otabek snickered. “I’ve only been here twice, and each time you try to fall asleep on the ground. I’m bringing you to bed.”

Strong arms encircled Yuri and tugged him up. He was fading fast, he could feel it, but he needed to say something before he fell asleep.

“ _Otabek_.”

“Yes?”

The softest blankets in the entire world were being wrapped around Yuri. Otabek snickered again, mumbling something about tiger print. Or maybe it was leopard print; Yuri couldn’t hear very well.

“Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

With that, Yuri could finally fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like its important to note that although they're def into each other at this point, it's not a good idea to instigate something while drinking. It happens all the time in our media, but I feel like its a big part of rape culture to take advantage of someone while they're drunk (not that this is at all what would happen with otabek/yuri in this fic, bc they like each other mutually. but still).


	9. My First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a bit longer than I was expected lmao, I got a bit carried away.

Yuri woke with a pounding headache and what felt like death weighing down each of his limbs. As soon as he opened his eyes, cheap alcohol lurched in his stomach and he threw his blankets off. Instead of solid ground, however, he jumped directly onto a sleeping Otabek.

“ _Mmph!_ ”

Yuri went flying, slipping off of Otabek’s back into the wall in front of him.

“Shit!” he cursed, sliding down the wall. “What the fuck are you doing on the floor, Altin?”

Otabek yawned and rubbed his face blearily. “Sleeping, until very recently.” Otabek’s leather jacket was bunched into some sort of pillow, and a leopard-print blanket was tangled around his legs. Yuri glanced guiltily at the dozens of pillows on his own bed.

“Dude, I would have given you a pillow. And, like, my couch or something.” _Or my bed_ , he wanted to say, but one glance at Otabek’s black t-shirt riding up over his stomach had him blushing furiously.

“I didn’t really think about it,” the other man confessed. Yuri moved to stretch and the alcohol sloshed angrily in his stomach again.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, scrambling towards the bathroom and tying the top of his hair up. A couple errant strands floated down to his jaw. Falling to his knees, he emptied his stomach of the poisonous death-fluid he had ingested copious amounts of the night before. “I hate this.”

Otabek peered around the door of the bedroom, still on the floor. “Are you okay?”

“ _No_ ,” Yuri said forcefully, wiping his mouth. Thankfully, his hair was mostly pulled out of his face. Moaning, Yuri fell back on the floor of the bathroom, arms splayed. “I’m dead.”

“You should have been an actor, not a musician,” Otabek commented wryly, pulling the gaudy blanket around his shoulders. 

Yuri glared at him from the floor. “Music runs in my veins and fills my lungs, Altin.”

“I think you just proved my point.” Yuri groaned again. Otabek sighed and got up, blanket still dangling around his shoulders, and extended a hand to Yuri. He took it, letting the other man tug him up. “Let’s make food.”

“Coffee!” Yuri exclaimed, springing up. His headache protested violently, and he rubbed the sides of his head tenderly.

“I don’t even know how to make coffee.”

“Damn,” Yuri said, still massaging his head as he followed Otabek to the kitchen. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Yuri rolled his eyes. Then a thought struck him. “Hey, how did you know I was old enough to drink? I mean, I _am_ old enough to drink--” he added defensively, “but most people think I’m younger than I am...”

Otabek, for some reason, blushed lightly, turning around to rummage in Yuri’s cupboards. “Um, your age is also on Google. I wasn’t necessarily looking, just something I noticed.”

Yuri wasn’t as pissed off as Otabek seemed to expect him to be. Honestly, he thought it was kind of funny. “How am I supposed to find anything out about you? You’re not famous,” he teased lightly, jumping up on the counter.

Otabek smiled mildly, pulling out a carton of eggs from the fridge. “You can always ask, Yuri.”

It struck Yuri just how much he enjoyed seeing the Kazakh man wandering around his kitchen like he was at home. Even with sleepy eyes and mussed hair, he looked so badass to Yuri. It was almost unfair to include the beauty of his violin music. Yuri felt rather unspectacular next to him, especially in the same clothes he’d drunkenly fallen asleep in. 

“Be right back,” Yuri said, hopping off the counter. Back in his room, he quickly changed into sweats and a clean t-shirt. Not nearly on Otabek’s level, but at least they were comfortable and didn’t smell like alcohol.

When he returned to the kitchen, two omelets were cooking on his stove and Otabek was struggling with the coffee machine. Filters were spilled all over the counter, and Yuri could see he was dangerously close to putting whole coffee beans where the water was supposed to go.

“Okay, stop. You’re making a mess.” Yuri pushed Otabek’s hands away and grabbed the beans away. “And you have to grind these first, dumbass.” Otabek hovered awkwardly before going back to the omelets. “I appreciate the gesture, though,” Yuri added grudgingly, and was rewarded with a flash of a smile before Otabek turned around.

Making coffee wasn’t exactly a difficult task, and so while Yuri went through the motions his mind went back to all the questions he wanted to ask Otabek. “Otabek,” he started, trying not to sound hesitant. 

“Plisetsky,” Otabek replied solemnly, lips twitching. Yuri’s noticed that he does that when he’s fighting a smile.

“Why were you in Kazakhstan the other day? Or, I guess a couple days...” he trailed off. Otabek sighed a minuscule sigh, putting down the spatula. 

“Family emergency.” 

Yuri nodded. He didn’t really want to pry, and that was all the information he needed to prevent dying from curiosity. He finished prepping the coffee and waited in earnest for his cup to fill up, head still throbbing. His stomach was starting to hurt again, too. 

“Were you being serious about the concert?” Otabek asked suddenly. 

“Yeah. Which means, if you still want to do it with me...” Otabek nodded. “...Then we need to start practicing together like a lot. I don’t know much about performing with accompanists,” Yuri admitted, “but when Victor and Yuuri started performing together they practiced all the time. Although that might have been because they were obsessed with each other.” 

Otabek glanced over, confused. “Who’s Victor and Yuuri?”

Yuri groaned. “Oh, God. How did my damn birthday come up in your Google stalking, but not the fucking living legend of Russia? He’s only the best violinist of the century.”

“Oh, Victor Nikiforov. I actually have heard of him,” Otabek said. Yuri wasn’t sure if he was pleased or disgruntled by this.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly searched their most famous composition. They had won Eurasia United with it two years ago, and even Yuri could acknowledge that it was a masterpiece. He handed his phone to Otabek.

Otabek slid the omelets onto two plates while watching the video, his expression neutral. “They’re good,” he said finally, once it was over.

Yuri raised his eyebrows. “Well, they won Eurasia United, so...” he trailed off when he saw Otabek’s quizzical look. “Oh my God. Fucking Christ. You don’t know what that is, do you?” The other man looked sheepish. “Eurasia United is one of the biggest musical competitions in the world. The top 25 pianists in Asia and Europe compose a classical piece and perform it with a violinist. Obviously it’s like the definition of success as a musician.”

“Obviously,” Otabek repeated, smiling. Yuri shot daggers at him, yanking his brimming coffee cup from under the coffee machine.

The silence that followed forced Yuri to finally confront the events of the last night. This was definitely an appropriate time to use the phrase “last night.” Despite his pounding headache and heavy stomach, Yuri was pretty sure he remembered most of what happened. The electronic club music hadn’t stopped them from trying every style of dance that Yuri knew of. He’d especially liked Otabek’s swing dancing (though it was bizarre being twirled around to Chainsmokers remixes). Yuri nearly choked on his omelet when the eventual grinding crossed his mind... and all the embarrassing things he’d said. He’d tried to _kiss_ Otabek.

And he would probably try again, if he wasn’t certain that he would mess everything up. Yuri Plisetsky was 18 and still hadn’t kissed anyone. He had zero experience when it came to dating, especially hot Kazakhstani violinist-DJs. 

Yuri sighed, thinking of what it’d be like to kiss Otabek Altin. Then he came back to his senses, blushing madly, and shoveled more omelet into his mouth.

“I have class in twenty minutes,” Otabek said suddenly after glancing at the time on his phone. He jumped up and ran back to Yuri’s room, returning with his jacket slung over his shoulder. Yuri frowned.

“Text me when you can. I want to play music with you,” Yuri said. 

“I can probably come back tonight, before work,” Otabek replied. Yuri brightened, but Otabek shook his head. “You’re staying here, though. Grounded for a week. Too much alcohol consumption.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, but he nodded. He didn’t think he could handle the awful music with his headache, anyway. “See you later.”

 

 

A couple days passed, and an unspoken routine was formed. Yuri would practice with Yakov all morning, and then play music with Otabek until he had to leave. Otabek would go to class, then come to Yuri’s, then leave for work. Some days he wouldn’t have class, and some days he wouldn’t have work, but he always played music with Yuri. Sometimes only a couple songs, sometimes for hours. Sometimes they’d just sit on the floor and talk about Otabek’s classes, or Yuri’s experience competing. 

It was strange, having to actually talk about his previous concerts or songs. Everyone Yuri talked to already knew about his past in music. But Otabek had so many questions. _Yuri_ had so many questions. 

“When did you start playing?” Yuri asked one afternoon, a couple days before the concert. They’d decided to play Le Cygne by Camille Saint-Saëns (Victor had recommended it to Yuri, but Yuri would never admit that to Otabek). 

Otabek relaxed his hold on his violin and looked up. “I was six. I saw my older sister playing in some school concert, and I was starstruck.” A fleeting peaceful expression crossed his face. “I would practice on her violin whenever she wasn’t around. It was too big for me at first, but I didn’t even notice. Once I grew out of it, I saved up my money to buy my own--” here he gestured to the violin he held in his hands, “--and I’ve had it ever since.”

Yuri pictured it in his head. A tiny Otabek with a miniature leather jacket, gazing in awe at his older sister (a long-haired version of Otabek). A slightly bigger Otabek, attempting to play music with a comically large violin. A teenage Otabek, with an obviously too-small violin and the beginnings of an undercut. Yuri couldn’t help but smile. “Did you ever have lessons?”

Otabek shrugged. “I mean, there were musicians in Almaty that helped me out, and I signed up for band in high school, but I was mostly self-taught. I could never afford lessons,” he said quietly.

Yuri squirmed in his seat at the piano. His grandfather hadn’t paid for lessons, but only because he didn’t trust anyone else with Yuri’s musical education. Yuri played piano with his дедушка every day until he was eleven. Yuri would never forget that small recital he’d given in Moscow, when Nikolai had hugged him with joyful tears in his eyes and whispered, “ _You’ve surpassed me, Yuratchka_ ,” in his ear. The next day, Yuri had his first lesson with Yakov. 

Sofia jumped up into Yuri’s lap, purring gently. Yuri stroked her absentmindedly, still thinking of his first recital. “Otabek, do you know Tchaikovsky’s Seasons?”

Otabek nodded. “March is my favorite.”

“Mine, too.”

 

 

It was the day before the concert. Otabek didn’t get out of class until five (Yuri griped about this endlessly on the phone), but he was taking the night off work to practice at Yuri’s. It didn’t occur to Yuri until Otabek showed up that he might actually be _nervous_.

“I think the doorman is starting to think that I actually am Yakov’s third cousin,” Otabek complained, tossing his jacket on the table. Yuri snorted, playing with Snapchat filters on his phone.

“How was class?”

For some reason, Otabek hesitated. “Um. Not good.”

Instantly Yuri looked up, suspicious. “Why?”

“I’m kind of... not passing two of my classes. Momentarily.”

Yuri groaned. “Fucking hell. This is because of me, isn’t it.”

The Kazakh man shrugged, but he wouldn’t look at Yuri. “I’m just not keeping up with my homework. After the concert, things will get easier.” Yuri thought guiltily of his plans to ask him to accompany him at Eurasia United. That would be a lot more time-consuming than just playing at a local concert.

“Speaking of the concert...” Otabek trailed off. “I don’t really know what to expect. Ah, will there be a lot of people there?”

Yuri considered whether or not he should be honest. “Well, Victor and Yuuri will be performing before us... and Victor especially draws a lot of attention. So who knows, maybe they won’t notice us.” Yuri knew this wasn’t true. He was nearly as famous as Victor, and all of Russia would be intensely curious to see who Yuri’s new accompanist was.

“I’ve never performed before,” Otabek confessed, studying the floor. Sofia wandered over and wound between his legs. “This will be my first concert.”

Yuri pushed his hair out of his face and sat up on the couch. “Otabek,” he started, not sure what to say. He wasn’t good at encouragement, or positivity at all, really. Yuri thrived on the thrill before a competition. “You’re _amazing_ at what you do. I’ve never heard you mess up.” Yuri paused. Was he doing this right? “If I didn’t believe you were the best out there, I wouldn’t want you as my accompanist. And you can believe that,” Yuri finished, cracking a small smile. “I don’t just keep you around for your DJ skills and pretty face.”

Otabek’s jaw dropped, and Yuri’s eyes widened. Did he just say that? 

Thankfully, the other man just snorted. “So you keep me around for my DJ skills, my pretty face, _and_ my music.”

At this point, Yuri’s face was beet red from forehead to chin. “Not just that,” he mumbled. Otabek came over and sat in front of Yuri on the floor, smirking like some smug idiot that just won the lottery.

“Why else?” That smirk wouldn’t leave his face. Yuri wanted to slap it off him (or kiss it off him).

“Shut up.”

Otabek’s hands curled around Yuri’s wrists and pulled him closer. The Russian man’s hair hung low enough to brush Otabek’s face. “Tell me.”

Yuri sighed, causing tendrils of hair to float around them. Otabek’s brown eyes were the exact color of coffee. Something Yuri loved dearly.

“I _like you_ ,” Yuri said on an exhale, intensely embarrassed and even more nervous than Otabek was to play music in front of hundreds. Why was he nervous?

“Good.”

And then they were kissing. Otabek’s hands drifted up to Yuri’s sides, and somehow Yuri was holding the sides of Otabek’s face, and Yuri had to remind himself to close his eyes because he couldn’t stop staring. _Finally_ , his heart seemed to say.

Yuri slid off the couch, legs angled awkwardly at Otabek’s sides. The other man pulled away, pecked him a final time, then buried his head in Yuri’s neck. He circled his arms around Yuri’s thin body and pulled him tight. “I like you, too.”

Over Otabek’s head, Yuri could see just the skyline of St. Petersburg through his window. The sun was setting spectacularly in a muted shower of pinks and oranges, with hazy navy descending rapidly. A couple faint stars dotted the sky just where the window stopped.

Yuri pushed him away gently, only to pull him back in again for another kiss. And another and another and another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le cygne by camille saint-saens: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b44-5M4e9nI
> 
> song of the lark (march) by tchaikovsky: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2C_qQS5PUw


	10. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I listen to le cygne on repeat and cry whilst writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *le cygne means the swan in french.

The next morning dawned just as spectacularly as the previous night’s sunsets. Yuri, curled up on the couch next to Otabek, took in the beautiful pastels glowing through the window and silently thanked whatever gods were listening for sunrises. And for Otabeks.

Otabek, for some reason that Yuri didn’t understand, had refused to sleep in Yuri’s bed. He mumbled something about innocence, which made Yuri blush, and told him he was sleeping on the couch. Of course, Yuri was too stubborn to let it go, so they ended up bunched on the couch together. Uncomfortable, but happy.

Yuri had never been so _close_ to someone before. He had never before been so grateful to be small, either. But his size allowed him to be tucked against the other man’s chest in perfect alignment, and Yuri loved it. Even though Otabek’s arm was currently slung across Yuri’s face in a very unpleasant way.

“Mmph, Beka, can’t breath,” Yuri mumbled into Otabek’s arm. Otabek propped himself up and cocked an eyebrow at Yuri.

“So you can call me Beka but I can’t call you Yura?”

“Never said that.” Yuri nestled back under his arm, trying and failing to contain his smile.

“We have a concert today,” Otabek said, lying back and staring at the ceiling. 

Yuri nodded. “You’ll do great. It’ll be awesome.” A couple moments passed, and Yuri couldn’t take it anymore. “Wanna be my boyfriend?”

Otabek muffled a laugh into the couch. “Sure, Yuri.” An onslaught of forehead kisses ensued.

“Stop it, that’s _gross_.”

 

 

Otabek made them blueberry pancakes. Yuri made himself coffee. He wasn’t sure if Otabek’s silence was due to nerves or if he was just being his usual quiet self. Yuri couldn’t really understand the other man’s anxiety over it all. He’d grown up performing and he couldn’t remember the last time he was actually nervous. Yuri was always confident with his abilities.

“Do you have anything formal to wear?” Yuri asked suddenly. Concerts at St. Peterburg Hall were a black tie affair. Yuri always griped about the fancy clothing, but he secretly loved dressing up in a suit and tie (though most suits had to be tailored to fit his small frame).

“I have a suit that I wore to a wedding last summer. I didn’t think I’d need it in St. Petersburg, but you never know when a Russian piano prodigy will ask you to accompany you at the Hall of Music.” Otabek’s words were casual, but his smile was tense. Yuri sighed inwardly.

“Okay, knock it off,” Yuri said, lightly kicking him from his seat on the counter. “You’re way too fucking good to be nervous. Come here.”

Otabek abandoned his blueberry pancake and stood in front of Yuri, eyes tight. “I don’t want to mess up your reputation.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, gripping Otabek’s hands. He was almost certain this wasn’t the right way to deal with someone’s anxiety, but he had zero experience with trying to make people feel confident in themselves. “I don’t give _any_ fucks about my reputation. You know how I got my reputation? Not caring about what critics thought. So even if you do mess up-- which you won’t, because I’ve never heard anything but perfection from you-- people won’t care. They don’t expect anything from me. I’m un-expectable.”

Otabek cracked a smile at that. “I think you mean unpredictable.”

Yuri growled, “Shut up.” Otabek had no other choice, because abruptly Yuri was kissing him, both hard and soft at the same time. This was another field Yuri had no experience in, but he didn’t care. If he thought Otabek’s lack of confidence was ridiculous, he sure as hell wasn’t going to be insecure about his kissing abilities (though a small voice in the back of his head told him that Otabek had probably kissed dozens of people).

They broke apart, Otabek beaming up into Yuri’s face. Yuri tried to scowl back.

“You look like a lovestruck idiot.”

“I _am_ a lovestruck idiot.” Otabek locked his arms around Yuri, resting his head on his chest. Yuri hugged him close, wrapping his legs around him. “Pretending to be taller than me,” Otabek mumbled into Yuri’s shirt.

Yuri snorted. “You caught me.” They stayed like that for a while, Yuri twining his fingers through the long part of Otabek’s hair absentmindedly.

“Okay, enough of this sentimental shit. Let’s go practice.”

 

 

Otabek looked _stunning_ in a suit. It was so unfair. Yuri stood in front of his mirror, meticulously tying his tie and smoothing down his hair, while Otabek walked around like he was the god of formal wear and black-and-white color schemes. Yuri couldn’t tell if he was jealous or in love.

“I like your hair like that,” Otabek said, coming up behind him and petting Yuri’s blonde hair gently. 

Yuri swatted him away. “Then don’t mess it up, Altin.” For the hundredth time he tried to pull it back in a ponytail. His fringe still drifted down in front of his face. “Ugh. It’s so close.”

The Kazakh man’s lip twitched. “Why does it matter so much?”

A myriad of reasons flashed through his mind. An image of teenage Victor, long flowing hair kept in a graceful ponytail, came to the front of his mind, as well as, inexplicably, his grandfather. Yuri hadn’t felt the desire to cut his hair since his death. He still wasn’t sure why, but he felt like it was an unspoken tribute to him. “Aesthetics,” Yuri replied simply. Otabek raised his eyebrows skeptically, but didn’t say anything else. 

Yuri gave up on the half-ponytail and let his hair hang down, brushing the shoulders of his white collared shirt. His suit jacket hung on the back of a chair in the living room. 

“We should get there an hour early to get ready. I texted Victor and Yuuri to come pick us up on their way,” Yuri said, slipping his hand into Otabek’s. Casual touching, surprisingly, came naturally to Yuri.

Otabek squeezed his hand once and bent to pick up his violin case. “How long do we have?”

“Probably twenty minutes.”

Otabek inhaled slowly.

“So you can put that down. Because we literally have twenty minutes.”

Otabek shot him a look, but placed his violin case gently on the counter. “Do you have any tea?”

Yuri flounced over to a cupboard and pulled out a solitary box of tea, with only three teabags left. “Um, hope you like chai spice?”

The other man wrinkled his nose, but took the bag and dropped it in a cup. He rummaged through Yuri’s pots-and-pans cupboard for the rarely used tea kettle. “What tea do you like?”

“Green. Some kinds of black tea, but only in the morning.”

Yuri made a mental note to pick some up the next time he went to the store.

 

 

“Yuri! Introduce us to your mysterious accompanist!” Victor exclaimed, jumping out of the passenger seat. Yuuri gave Yuri an apologetic look from the driver’s seat. 

Victor stuck out his hand to Otabek, who looked both confused and timid. Yuri wedged his way in between them and pushed Victor back to the car. “His name is Otabek Altin, and he’s better than you.” Otabek flushed deeply.

Victor, unsurprisingly, kept up a constant stream of babble to Otabek and Yuri about all the songs the two were going to perform tonight. Yuri, sitting behind Yuuri, leaned forward and muttered, “Otabek is kinda nervous, so don’t pressure him, alright?”

Yuuri nodded, glancing back at Yuri. The Russian man knew that Yuuri would understand. He could still vividly remember Victor’s struggle to get Yuuri to realize his potential and talent. It wasn’t something you could be forced to understand, though. Confidence came from inside, not from others. Eventually, Yuuri had overcome his anxiety and it had enabled him to win gold. Yuri would never forget it.

“Oh, and don’t mention Eurasia United. I haven’t actually talked to him about that yet.”

“Hm. Okay,” Yuuri said dubiously, in thinly accented Russian. “I don’t think--”

“Talk about it later. We’re almost there,” Yuri finished in Japanese, finally remembering their slight language barrier. He leaned back in his seat and tried to pretend he hadn’t just had an entire conversation. Otabek glanced at him quickly, but he was still trying to concentrate on Victor’s stream of consciousness. 

“And where are you from, Otabek? Yuri hasn’t told us anything.”

“Almaty, Kazakhstan.”

“I’ve heard that’s a beautiful city.”

Otabek nodded vaguely. Yuri slid his hand over discreetly and linked their fingers together. The other man gave him a look that was both grateful, nervous, and sappy. Yuri flashed him a tiny smile in return.

Finally they made it to the St. Petersburg Hall. 

 

 

Yuri had forgotten in the last couple months how lovely Yuuri and Victor’s playing was. Yuuri was a subdued pianist; his face was always thoroughly focused and his hands gentle. Victor had a bit of a flair for dramatics. His eyebrows drew up and his eyes closed in an expression of impossible sadness; combined with his emotional songs, it made the listener wonder who the Russian violinist really was. 

They were playing Camille Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of Animals, excepting Le Cygne. That was to be played by Yuri and Otabek at the very end of the concert. 

While Yuri leaned against the railing backstage, Otabek paced restlessly in front of him, violin in one hand and bow resting on a chair. His suit jacket sprawled across the railing next to Yuri.

Yuri debated whether or not to yell at him or kiss him. Neither would help, he decided. Instead he just watched him wear a pathway into the ground.

The Katsudon and Vitya’s music echoed through the curtains, ringing in Yuri’s ears. Yuuri was masterful, the Russian knew enough to recognize that, but Victor often got most of the attention during their concerts. 

Yuri looked up briefly at Otabek, wondering how the crowd would receive them. How the crowd would receive _him_. Many of the people in the audience, including critics, were there simply to see the famous Yuri Plisetsky and his new accompanist. Yuri hadn’t performed since Russian Nationals, either, and that was another source for curiosity. He knew that after this concert speculation about Eurasia United would be rife, and Otabek would eventually hear of it. Yuri wanted to be the first to suggest that they perform together, though. _If_ Yuri actually got invited.

“Yuri,” Otabek said, strained. “I think it’s our turn.” Yuri pushed off from the railing and threaded his fingers through Otabek’s free hand, leaning up to kiss his jawline. Swallowing loudly, the other man nodded and turned for his bow.

Yuri resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. They weren’t even _competing_ , for Christ’s sake.

The crowd was raucous as Victor and Yuuri left the stage with smiles on their faces. Victor winked at Yuri, who glared back. Otabek positioned himself in front of the piano, almost entirely facing Yuri. He knew (and suspected the other man knew as well) that violinists were supposed to face the audience, but it didn’t matter. They played for each other.

Neither of them needed sheet music for the song at this point. Yuri placed his hands on the keys, feeling the familiar cool texture, and began the song as he had done dozens of times in the past week. But instead of keeping his eyes trained on the keys, Yuri steadily maintained his eye contact with Otabek. 

Something about this language of music that he knew so well gave Yuri the confidence play the song honestly. As the swanlike notes flowed through his hands, he tried to impart some higher meaning into the song that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t certain on what his feelings for Otabek were yet, besides the obvious attraction, but he hoped the other man could understand through his playing.

With the first measures out of the way, Otabek lifted his violin smoothly and swept his own first notes through the air. No trace of nerves or hesitation, just the grace of someone who knew exactly what they were doing, and why they were doing it. And in the first notes, it was clear that he was playing for Yuri.

Yuri couldn’t take his eyes off of him. It was reckless, letting his hands drive on autopilot while he gawked at his violinist, but at this point _he_ was the accompanist. He was the background music while this Kazakh man wooed the audience. 

At the height of the song, Otabek opened his eyes and looked directly at Yuri, his eyes full of emotions that Yuri never even knew existed before this man walked in his life. Helplessly, Yuri dropped his gaze back to the piano. He finished Le Cygne with a different kind of passion than he’d ever known. Yakov probably wouldn’t approve of this either, Yuri thought to himself as he attempted to recreate the song for just this moment. His hands seemed to know exactly what Le Cygne needed to show Otabek, and the rest of the world, just how changed Yuri Plisetsky was.

Otabek’s violin and bow hung at his sides, chest rising and falling rapidly in exertion. He held tension and strain in every muscle of his body when he played, Yuri had noticed, and this performance was no exception. Yuri himself was slightly out of breath when he rose to take center stage, applause sounding from all around.

“Are you _crying_?” Yuri hissed through the side of his mouth. Otabek shook his head wordlessly and gripped his bow and violin in the same hand, motioning for Yuri to give him his hands.

Confused, Yuri held them out to Otabek, who grasped them and brushed the smallest of kisses across his fingers.

“Magic,” whispered Otabek. Yuri’s jaw dropped and he blinked rapidly. Was _he_ crying?

“We gotta bow now,” he continued. Yuri’s mind was numb, but he turned to face the audience and bowed with Otabek, still blinking furiously. They walked offstage in what seemed to be slow motion, and as soon as the curtains closed behind them Yuri grabbed Otabek and buried his face in his chest, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“You’re magic,” he repeated, louder this time, and rested his chin on the top of Yuri’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The composer of the Carnival of Animals and the composer of Yuri's free skate song is one and the same. Just for some background knowledge.
> 
> le cygne: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b44-5M4e9nI
> 
> Also, Yuuri and Victor's song that they win Eurasia United with is Yuuri's free skate song. Ya know, "Yuri On Ice." I'm sure they named it something like "yuri on keys" lmao. Anyway, hopefully everyone knows what that sounds like by now, but if not, here's a handy link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJttZ_Zfiw0


	11. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Frank Sinatra and sappiness. sorrynotsorry

After the concert, Yuuri had the sense to drag Victor away somehow and give them space to compose themselves. Yuri pulled himself together after five minutes of clinging and muffled crying, in which a bemused Otabek simply stroked his hair and held him. He didn’t even know _why_ he was crying. All they’d done was perform a three-minute song. 

Yuri swiped at his eyes and disentangled himself from Otabek’s firm arms. The other man brushed Yuri’s hair to the side and peered into his face. “You good?”

He nodded, reaching up to lace their fingers together. “Let’s get out of here.”

Otabek seemed satisfied with his perusal of Yuri’s face and towed him by the hand down the hall. “Are Nikiforov and Katsuki going to--”

“Yeah,” Yuri sighed. “And Yakov will probably also have something to say. And Lilia was here--” He stopped abruptly. “Otabek, that was really good. Just so you know.”

The other man looked back and smirked slightly. “Obviously. You’re crying.”

Yuri glowered fiercely, but Otabek just turned away.

“Anyway,” Yuri continued. “People are going to talk about this. They’re gonna give you offers, ask you to perform, be nosy about your personal life.” He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye to see how Otabek was reacting. He was stoic, expression neutral. Yuri added under his breath, “You might even get people stalking you on Google”. Otabek rolled his eyes. “But--”

“ _Yura_ ,” Otabek sighed, cutting him off and placing his hands on Yuri’s shoulders. “Stop it. I would put up with all of that-- and I _am_ going to put up with all of that-- because of what we just did onstage.” He paused, seeming to think over his words. When he spoke again, it was slow and deliberate. “I don’t know very much about performing, or duets, or the professional music world at all. All I know anything about is playing the violin. But I think that what we just did was unusually good, yes?” Yuri nodded vigorously. “And more than that, I just want to keep performing with you.” His hands slid down Yuri’s arms to grip his hands. “Because I like you, and I love your music. It’s so beautiful, Yuri.” 

Yuri stared openmouthed as Otabek traced a finger down his neck gently, coming to rest at the Russian’s delicate collarbones. “ _You’re_ so beautiful, Yuri.” He bent down, placing the softest of kisses on his lips, his cheeks, his neck, while the smaller man stood in shock with his arms hanging at his sides.

“Otabek,” he whispered, voice suddenly hoarse. “You’re mauling me in the St. Petersburg Hall of Music.” The man straightened up, the tenderness in his eyes fading to his usual calm expression, but Yuri fell forward limply into his arms. “Don’t stop.”

Otabek snorted, looking around quickly. “Let’s go find Nikiforov and Katsuki.”

Yuri sighed theatrically, but let himself get tugged down the rest of the back hall. Yuri’s old troupe of musicians, mostly Russians, were milling around the lobby. It gave the blonde a strange sense of deja vu to see them all in the entrance of the Hall like he had seen so many times growing up. Georgi Popovich, Mila Babicheva, Yakov, and the others were scattered around, talking or holding instruments. 

“Yuri!” Mila screeched, clarinet in hand. Yuri braced himself resignedly to the unavoidable hag hug as she threw her arms around him and lifted him off the ground, still screeching.

“Get off,” Yuri protested, legs swinging. Mila dropped him and tussled his hair with her free hand.

“Where have you been? Your doorman won’t let me up anymore. He says he knows Yakov’s third cousin personally and it’s not me. Yuri!” 

Yuri snagged Otabek’s jacket sleeve and yanked him away, scanning the crowd for Victor and Yuuri. He nimbly dodged Lilia’s line of sight and finally spotted the couple by the doors.

He would talk to Lilia and Yakov eventually. Tonight just wasn’t the right time.

The image of Otabek brushing his lips across Yuri’s fingers, onstage, flashed through his mind again. Tonight was _really_ not the right time.

 

 

“Want to play music together?”

The words had become routine between them. 

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Yuri hung up, feeling an unfamiliar sense of butterflies in the pit of his stomach. He no longer was nervous around Otabek, but he was planning to broach the topic of Eurasia United tonight and he had no idea what to expect. 

On one hand, Otabek had clearly loved performing with him. Not only that, but Yuri suspected he might even love _him_. 

But Otabek seemed to have so much going on in his life, and there was still so much Yuri didn’t know about him. He was shockingly open about some things, yet so private about others. Yuri knew next to nothing about his family or his life in Almaty, but Otabek had told him everything about his classes, his job, his friends, even his past partners.

Yuri was amazed at how easy being with Otabek was. He found himself waking up with a smile on his face and the Kazakh man on his mind nearly every morning. At exactly seven, Yuri would get a simple _Good morning_ text and a random picture of whatever Otabek seemed to have nearest. Sometimes a bowl of cereal, a textbook, or the sunrise. Sometimes his toothbrush, a cup of tea, or the St. Petersburg campus. Once he even got a tired-looking selfie (Yuri had saved it).

He always had assumed he would be shit at relationships. Not just because of his never-ending negativity and snarky comments, but because he never thought his confidence would extend to an actual romantic relationship. Performing was never a big deal, but kissing terrified him.

Until Otabek. Otabek made kissing as easy as breathing, and far more enjoyable. He made talking easy, and silence too. Even Yuri’s love for music had changed with Otabek. Music was always either playing or being played whenever Otabek came over, and it wasn’t Otabek’s rhythmic club mixes or Yuri’s “pretentious” classical (a direct quote). One week after the concert Yuri had finally asked what music was always playing when Otabek was doing homework and Yuri was, well, pretending to watch Netflix but honestly just watching Otabek.

“This is Frank Sinatra,” he had said indignantly. “You haven’t heard Frank Sinatra?”

“Um, no. Has he composed any symphonies?”

An eye roll from Otabek. “It’s like you’re cultured, but extremely uncultured at the same time.” He had abandoned his homework and grabbed a reluctant Yuri by the waist, resulting in an hour of sappy swing dancing.

Yuri was happier than he’d been in a long time.

 

 

Otabek kicked open the door, hands occupied with a mountain of books, clothes, and his violin case. “You forgot your sweater again.”

“You mean you left wearing it? I don’t even know how you fit into it,” Yuri grumbled. He knew exactly how it fit Otabek; the sweater used to be Victor’s before him and positively drowned Yuri.

Yuri stood up from his seat at the piano and stretched languorously, shirt pulling up over his stomach. He’d been sitting for hours working on his composition, and hadn’t really made any progress.

Otabek dropped all his things onto the couch and caught Yuri in a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around the smaller man.

“Mph,” Yuri mumbled into his chest, relaxing into his arms. He hadn’t realized how tense he was. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“I thought you wanted to play music,” Otabek murmured into Yuri’s hair. He seemed to love burying his face in Yuri’s blonde locks. 

“I _do_. I’m just _tired_.”

“Let’s play something sleepy.”

“We always play sleepy things. The first thing we played was Moonlight Sonata, for God’s sake.”

Otabek traced a line down Yuri’s spine. “Then let’s play that.”

Yuri nodded and pulled away, plopping back down on the bench. “Oh my God, I’m going to have back problems before I’m thirty. Before I’m _twenty_.”

Otabek rolled his eyes, unzipping his violin case. “Then stop playing piano.”

“Ha. I’ll pay you fifty dollars to tell Yakov that. Hey, speaking of Yakov, he called me this morning. Wants us to come to a practice together.” _For Eurasia United_ , Yuri added in his head. _Which you don’t know about yet_.

“Okay, I just gotta clear it with my--”

“Yeah, yeah, your schedule, I know,” Yuri replied dismissively, waving a hand. “I already told him.”

Otabek smiled and propped his violin on his collarbones, looking at Yuri expectantly. “Start us off, piano prodigy Plisetsky.”

Yuri complied, beginning with only the bare melody of the song. His brain and his back hurt too much for anything but the simplest version of Moonlight Sonata.

Otabek seemed to understand perfectly, because he took his normal part in their duet further than usual, filling in the song where Yuri didn’t. It had been weeks, and Yuri still couldn’t wrap his head around the perfect way their puzzle pieces matched. 

The song rolled gracefully through the apartment, and a sense of peace descended as soon as the song ended. “I love that we can do that,” Yuri admitted quietly, turning around in his seat to look at Otabek. 

He raised his eyebrows curiously. “What, play music?”

“No. I can play music just fine on my own. I love that we can create something else with our music. Like, it’s greater than the sum of its parts or something,” he finished. Otabek nodded, gazing at him with something Yuri could only describe as love, and he decided to take his chances.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded again.

“If I get invited to Eurasia United, will you accompany me?” His nerves only leaked out on the last words, his voice cracking slightly.

Otabek’s mouth fell open in slow motion. He looked absolutely flabbergasted, Yuri noticed with concern. “You would seriously want me to accompany you to a competition like that?”

Now it was Yuri’s turn to be shocked. “Um, who else would I want?” Then, almost angrily, “I wasn’t kidding when I said you were better than Victor. For me, at least.” Yuri paused, struggling to organize his thoughts. “I don’t think there’s anyone in the world that could accompany me better. We’re like musical soulmates.”

The corners of Otabek’s mouth tugged up a tiny degree. “Musical soulmates?”

Yuri tried not to sound anxious. “So, do you want to?”

Now he was full-on grinning. He leaned over, pulling Yuri up from the piano bench, and slid his hands into Yuri’s hair. “God. Of course I want to.”

Yuri’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Because it’s really time-consuming, and we’re going to have to compose a piece together, which I’ve actually already started, and then we’re going to have to practice all the time, and Yakov--”

Otabek pressed his lips to Yuri’s suddenly, effectively silencing his babble. Yuri melted into a puddle of how-the-hell-did-I-get-this-lucky. He wasn’t sure what to call that emotion.

They broke apart and the reality of it all slowly sank over Yuri. “I fucking found one,” he whispered. Otabek furrowed his brow.

“What?”

“For years, critics claimed I would never find a violinist. ‘Style differences,’ they called it,” he said wryly. “But I found one. And he’s perfect.” Yuri smiled triumphantly. “Suck it, critics.”

“I thought you said you didn’t care what they thought.”

“I don’t,” he replied firmly. Otabek cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He simply tugged on his hair again, pulling him back for another kiss.

 

 

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Yuri.” They were lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Just holding hands. Dusk had descended and the night was all around them, but neither had bothered to turn on the lights.

“Fucking sap,” Yuri replied on instinct. Otabek squeezed his hand, and silence fell again. Yuri thought of the first time he saw Otabek at the cafe. He thought of the first time they played music together. Dancing with him at the club. Playing more music. Music onstage, in the cafe, in Yuri’s living room. The concert. Dancing in the kitchen. Kisses. Everything up to now. “I’m already in love with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a Frank Sinatra ice dancing thing that I love (by the Shibutanis): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VerhmCamBsY


	12. The Violinist's Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek and Lilia get along smashingly. Also, Yuri gets an email from Eurasia United.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter outline is subject to change pretty much any time bc i'm terrible at planning. ALSO another side note, this chapter is shorter bc it wasn't really in my outline at all but the next chapter was getting way too long to be standalone and i wanted to include some more details (the reason why i'm publishing a chapter a day after my last one). ALSO side note, the tense change halfway through is purposeful. try to roll with it lol.

Yuri’s phone dinged from somewhere in the tangle of blankets. He rolled over, patting the bed until it was unearthed from under his pillow. Unexpectedly, it was a text from Lilia, not Otabek. He squinted suspiciously at it, trying to read through the morning fog in his eyes.

_Lesson today at noon. Yakov’s studio. Don’t be late, and bring the violinist._

Yakov had brought Yuri into Lilia’s training when he was fifteen and just beginning to perform on a national level. Although the woman was a violinist, she taught him everything about incorporating flow and grace into his own compositions and interpreting the correct emotions in others’. Nikolai had incited Yuri’s passion for music, Yakov had fueled it, and Lilia had refined it. 

Yuri rubbed his eyes blearily, gradually comprehending the text. He mentally reviewed his boyfriend’s schedule, trying to remember class times and work hours and everything in between. Giving up almost immediately, he scrolled through his messages and found Otabek’s name.

_What time does your American Lit class start again?_

Seconds later, _I’m in it right now._

_Does it end before noon?_

_At noon._

Yuri grimaced, muttering curse words under his breath, and went back to Lilia’s messages. _Can we change it to one?_

_Not a minute past._ Yuri breathed a sigh of relief, and pulled himself slowly out of bed. Before trudging to the kitchen he spared a cursory glance at his alarm clock, then did a shocked double-take.

February 20th. Exactly one month before Eurasia United. Exactly the day invitations were sent. And... exactly one month after his first meeting with Otabek. Yuri’s thoughts whirled, connecting it all. _Fate_ , his mind whispered smugly, and Yuri pushed it down fiercely. He didn’t want to jinx it. Otabek, or Eurasia United.

Nothing was fate until he got invited. Until he won. Until _they_ won, together. Then Yuri would thank his lucky stars and profess to be a believer all along. In love, and in himself.

 

 

As per most days, Yuri doesn’t realize how quickly the morning has passed until it’s noon and Otabek is knocking on his door. Resignedly he jumps over the pile of dirty laundry sitting on his floor and kicks an old pizza box out of his way to reach the door. Shame-faced, he lets the Kazakh man in, not even trying to hide the mess.

“This is worse than most days,” Otabek remarks, looking with disgust at the clutter of coffee mugs on the counter. “How did you make such a mess in the hours between last night and now? Did you really need _five_ different mugs in that time?”

Yuri scowls at his chastising. “ _Yes_. One for each fucking cup of coffee, because I don’t have time to wash the dishes in the morning.”

Otabek raises his eyebrows, gingerly placing his backpack on top of a mess of papers. “Are these important?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuri retorts again. “Or else they wouldn’t be there.”

“Also, did you really drink five cups of coffee?” Otabek turns around, disapproval in his eyes. Yuri shrugs. “That’s probably not good for you.”

“I would wake up easier if you stayed here at night.” The teasing words are out of Yuri’s mouth before he can stop them. His mouth snaps shut. _Great job, Yuri_.

Otabek’s eyes widen. “Um.”

“Sorry. Forget I said that. It was a joke.”

For someone that had _significantly_ more experience than Yuri, Otabek really shouldn’t be so red-faced and flustered.

“Anyway,” Yuri continues, leaning awkwardly against the counter. “Lilia wants us to come to a lesson at one. Probably for Eurasia composition.” They’d started calling it that, ‘Eurasia composition,’ for lack of a better name. Yuri was terrible at naming his compositions, and Otabek didn’t have much experience with compositions at all. He’d written songs and such, but never formally and didn’t even make sheet music for them. He just recorded them in the DJ booth during the day and kept them on his phone. He still wouldn’t let Yuri listen to them, either, which Yuri found horribly unfair, since Otabek had found all his competition videos online.

Otabek nods, all traces of pink gone from his face. “So we have twenty minutes.” Leaving his violin case and backpack crushing Yuri’s papers on the couch, he crosses the living room and wraps an arm around Yuri’s waist. Winks suggestively, which earns a tiny laugh from Yuri, before his lips are too occupied to laugh anymore.

 

 

“Lilia Baranovskaya,” she stated in her usual precise manner, and holded her hand out imperiously to Otabek. Yuri frowned, watching the exchange resentfully. When she’d met Yuri, Lilia had simply commanded “Show me what you can do.” No handshake, either.

“Otabek Altin,” he replied quietly, eyes flicking around the studio. It wasn’t Lilia’s, but Yakov’s, who was missing from the large room. Instruments of all sizes and types were organized neatly on the walls, on the floor, propped against tables. Yakov’s music room had been one of Yuri’s favorite places as a young teenager, after his дедушка’s house and a small lake just outside of St. Petersburg. Whenever it froze, he would slide around on it in his boots, watching little kids skating or building snow forts along the banks.

He wandered away from the two violinists and let his mind stray from their polite conversation to those countless hours by the lake. Strangely, it had been the primary source for his inspiration in his early composing years. Something about the pristine ice,the giddy kids, and the skyline of St. Petersburg. He wondered vaguely if it was still frozen in late February.

“Yuri,” Lilia called in her clipped tones. “Give me the piece so far.” The blonde Russian silently handed her the papers. Like Yakov, she flipped through them critically, eyes flashing over the hastily scrawled notes.

“I love what you’re saying here,” she said, tapping on the first page. “Sets a very strong base. But it becomes rather thin and weak _here_ , which would be solved by incorporating more from the violin. We don’t want Mr. Altin--” Yuri’s jaw dropped, and she stopped speaking. “Close your mouth, Yuri. Such a distasteful habit. Anyway, we don’t want Mr. Altin to speak from _your_ voice, which is very prominent in the first part. We want him to speak from his own voice. Hopefully, this can blend as well as it did in Le Cygne, yes?” The two nodded mutely, both cowed by her presence. “So I want your part thin in this next section. Eurasia United is primarily a pianist competition, but we would lose points if the violinist didn’t take charge in such an emotionally charged part of the song. Give Mr. Altin free reign at the bridge, let him speak-- acting upon his performance of Le Cygne, I will assume it is a voice worth hearing-- and we will have a composition.” She finished with a constrained smile, as if she knew they were hanging on every concise word. 

“Now, Yuri. Play me your part so far, and then we will capture your violinist’s voice.”

 

 

After clearing it of clutter, Otabek collapsed on Yuri’s couch, burying his face in a cheetah print pillow. “That was exhausting,” he mumbled.

Yuri nodded, even though Otabek couldn’t see him. “She’s like that. I spent the majority of my formative years with her, too.”

“That explains a lot.” 

Yuri smacked his head. “Scoot over.” Otabek obliged, letting Yuri curl up next to him. He reached out and wrapped his arms around the smaller man, abandoning the pillow for Yuri’s chest. Yuri lightly raked his fingers through Otabek’s hair, still deep in thought from the two-hour lesson. “It’s only three.”

“I know. I’m so tired.”

“She likes you, you know. She’d never call me Mr. Plisetsky.”

Otabek nestled his face closer to Yuri’s neck, kissing him softly on the hollow of his throat. “That’s because she doesn’t like you, she loves you. You’re like her child, I think.”

Yuri nodded, letting his eyes flutter shut. “You have work tonight?”

“Yeah, in a couple hours.”

He sighed. “I’ll set an alarm.” Yuri kept one arm fastened tightly around Otabek as he rummaged on the ground for the hoodie that his phone was in. Clicking it open, he saw an email notification displayed on the lock screen. He opened it, eyes narrowing disbelievingly.

“Beka. Oh my God. Beka. I got invited to fucking Eurasia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity, Yuri and Otabek are basically composing Allegro Apassionato in B Minor. I'm sure we all know what that sounds like, but here's a link because it's a beautiful song and i listen to it all the time lmao (help me): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bzi1hPTVEM


	13. Barriers Scraped Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lowkey sinning in a place of worship (but it's Yuri's birthday so it's okay).

“You should keep the melody during this part. I’ll support you for these measures, and then take it back after the part you just wrote. I like that a lot as well, but I think it needs to flow better between us. We should preserve the differences in the two pieces, but they have to complement each other.” It was too easy for Yuri to sink into critical babble and forget it was his boyfriend he was talking to, not Yakov or Mila or Victor. Staring at the notes in front of him prevented him from getting stupidly, grossly lost in Otabek’s stupid, gross eyes. “Still, I really like what you wrote for the bridge. It’s so different from my original piece,” he wondered aloud, his eyes following the notes up and down the pages.

“I can’t imagine performing this,” Otabek murmured, speaking his first words in probably the last ten minutes. They were sprawled on the floor, staff-lined papers spread in front of them. The night before, Otabek had insisted they clean the room before trying any more composing, or else it would sound like “a dirty, messy room.” Whatever that sounded like (probably every single one of Yuri’s past pieces, because a messy room was where they were all composed).

“Do you think it’s not good enough yet?”

Otabek shook his head. “Not what I mean. It’s so... personal. For me, at least. I’ve never shared something I’ve made.”

“Yeah, I know,” huffed Yuri, thinking of the violin tracks he knew were on Otabek’s phone.

Otabek leaned over and kissed his forehead. “One day, Yura.”

Yuri closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head on the paper in front of him. He thought back to the night before. Otabek hadn’t had work that night, and he didn’t even have class the next morning, but he had left promptly at eight p.m anyway. Despite Yuri’s protests (both vocal and physical). Yuri wasn’t sure exactly what Otabek’s boundaries for them were, or why they even existed, but he seemed to abide strictly by them. It was getting tiresome to Yuri. He wasn’t a _child_ or anything. But, the back of his mind whispered, he did have a tendency to think things through rather poorly. Maybe it was for the best. Still, Yuri was getting frustrated. 

“What’s the date?” Yuri asked, still face-down on the current page of their composition.

“February 25th. Why?” 

“Twenty-three days until Eurasia.” Yuri felt an odd twist of nerves in his stomach, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. But he hadn’t wanted anything but Eurasia United in years, either. It was still difficult to comprehend that this was happening, that he was competing. He’d assumed, since his performance at Russian Nationals, that this would be the year, but it wasn’t real until the official email arrived in his inbox (and later, the official letter outlining the requirements, guidelines, dates, times, and other competitors).

“We’ll do fine. I know what you can do,” Otabek said, tugging the paper from under Yuri’s face. “Let’s play what we have so far and stop staring at it. My eyes are starting to hurt.”

Yuri lifted his head. “No, I want to play something I’m already good at. Boost my confidence.”

Otabek looked at him warily. “What’s wrong with your confidence?”

“Nothing,” Yuri blurted before Otabek was even halfway through his question. “I just need a break. Do you know Ave Maria?”

He smiled, picking himself off the floor. “The song from heaven. My sister used to love that song.” He reached for his violin case, withdrawing his instrument carefully. Yuri watched the way he held it, examined it, lifted it with indescribable grace. The only thing that came close to that sort of grace was his music.

Otabek finally noticed him watching and raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. Yuri scrambled up, blushing faintly, and rested his hands over the keys for the first notes of Ave Maria.

 

 

The level of concentration and exertion they were putting into songwriting was physically exhausting Yuri to the point of sleeping in well past dawn. For the past couple days, he’d woken up almost a full hour after Otabek’s typical seven a.m. text. But Yuri wasn’t really concerned about it; he’d been composing well into the night after Otabek had either gone to work or to his dorm on campus.

After replying to some texts, he scrolled through Instagram with one eye open, the rest of his face smushed into his pillow. It took him a couple minutes to connect the date with any sort of meaning. 

March 1st. It was his nineteenth birthday.

After a moment of turning it over in his mind, digesting it, he went back to Instagram. Birthdays weren’t really a big deal to him. Growing up, his дедушка and him had celebrated together, but after he’d moved in with Yakov they’d become nothing but a milestone.

Yuri dragged himself out of bed and rummaged in his dresser for his favorite leopard-print sweats and a t-shirt that read I’D RATHER BE PLAYING PIANO (Mila had given it to him as a joke after his first Russian Nationals, and although it had never left his apartment he secretly loved to wear it). (She had a matching clarinet one, and she wore it all the time). 

Hair messy and brain fuzzy, he made his way to the kitchen and poured his first cup of coffee. Yuri tugged on the blonde strands of hair, testing the length, and settled for a half bun before scanning his living room for the scattered sheets of their composition. 

Before he settled into his composing mode, however, Yuri wanted to play some of Beethoven’s sonatas. After Otabek’s song in the cafe, the Russian had a newfound appreciation for the sonatas. Without even realizing the habit, playing a handful each morning had become his favorite way to wake up.

He hadn’t even sat down at the piano when the door burst open. “Yura!” Yuri’s head whipped around, and he squinted suspiciously at a dripping-wet Otabek standing in the doorway. “I don’t have class today.”

Yuri gave him an are-you-crazy look. “Uh, yes you do.”

Otabek shrugged, eyes glinting. “Well, yeah, but I ditched it. I have an A in that class, anyway.”

Yuri sighed, but he had to admit that he was stupendously glad to see him. Yuri tried not to lay on the floor in angst every morning, but waiting for Otabek to get out of class was _painful_. He didn’t know how he had survived so long without him.

“Let’s take a break from composing today.” At Yuri’s astonished look, he quickly conceded, “Okay, like a four-hour break. I want to go somewhere.”

Otabek’s enthusiasm (Yuri wasn’t sure if that was even the right word) was starting to make him nervous. “Um. Go somewhere?”

The other man smiled slightly, shedding his damp jacket and shaking out his hair. He held his arms out almost hesitantly, and Yuri leapt up, crossing the room in what had to be some sort of world record for room-crossing. Yuri crushed his face into Otabek’s sweater-clad chest, entangling his fingers tightly at the hem. The Kazakh pushed his fingers carefully into Yuri’s hair.

Only a second passed before Yuri remembered what he was wearing. His embarrassing t-shirt and... okay, he was moderately proud of his sweatpants. Still, not what he was planning on wearing to his first date. Was this a date? “Can I take a shower before we go?”

Otabek snorted, releasing him. “You don’t need to ask permission.” He pressed his lips gently to Yuri’s forehead, then again to his lips. Yuri pushed back, rising on his tiptoes to meet Otabek eagerly. He slipped his fingers under Otabek’s sweater, tracing the hot skin between his shirt and pants. After a moment, Otabek’s hands slid from Yuri’s hair to his hands, softly grabbing his wrists and holding them between them. He pulled away from Yuri, looking at him accusingly. “Go take a shower.”

Yuri heaved a sigh, trying to ignore the rising heat in his face and on his lips. “You’re no fun.”

 

 

“It’s too cold for this,” Yuri shouted into Otabek’s ear over the roar of his motorcycle. Fat clumps of snow swirled around them, melting instantly on Yuri’s face. At the beginning of March, it was just cold enough for snow, but it turned to slush almost immediately on the ground. Now, it was slicking unpleasantly down Yuri’s cheeks, dampening the collar of his shirt underneath his jacket.

The motorcycle disrupted the calm atmosphere of winter in St. Petersburg, but to Yuri it was still beautiful. He rested his head on Otabek’s shoulder and watched the sleepy town whirl in front of him, arms wrapped tightly around the other man’s waist. 

After Yuri’s shower, Otabek had braided his wet hair tightly against his head, tying it back in the smallest of ponytails. “There,” he’d said triumphantly, running a hand over the smooth braids that connected at the back. Yuri had turned around, too grateful for words, and whispered, “Thank you.” _For braiding my hair. For your beautiful music. For your love._

Now they were tucked carefully under Yuri’s helmet (sometime in the past weeks it had become his). Otabek still hadn’t told him where they were going, but he’d brought his violin with him. It was clutched tightly in Yuri’s lap.

Finally, Yuri felt them begin to slow down. He could tell they were near the campus, but he’d never been to this part of town. Stepping carefully off the bike, he stared up at the strange building in front of them, shivering slightly.

Otabek was watching him apprehensively. “I wanted to bring you somewhere special to me,” he said carefully. “This is one of the only mosques in St. Petersburg. It’s not like the one in Almaty, but it’s...” 

Yuri stepped closer to him, interrupting him with a kiss, pretending it didn’t cause an eruption of butterflies in his stomach to do things like that. Pretending he was careless about kissing and touching and Otabek. “Show me.”

Otabek slid his hand into Yuri’s, taking his violin from the smaller man. He led them into the unlit mosque, cautiously pushing the heavy door open. Instead of lingering in the large, assembly area, he turned to the side and started pulling Yuri up a narrow spiral of stairs. They climbed until his calves burned and his breath sped up. “Fuck, Otabek, this building does _not_ look this tall from the outside.”

Otabek snorted, tightening his hold on Yuri’s hand. “Just wait.” The narrow staircase eventually opened up into a small room, the walls decorated with swirling Islamic motifs. Though a large window took up nearly an entire wall, displaying the thick snow outside, the beautiful mosaic of colors reminded Yuri of the trip he’d taken to arid and vibrant Morocco when he was fourteen. For a piano concert, of course.

He reached up, tracing the intricate patterns with his free hand. 

“Um, probably shouldn’t--” Otabek started hesitantly. 

Yuri whipped his hand away quickly. “Oops,” he mumbled sheepishly. Otabek couldn’t suppress his smile.

“Yura,” the Kazakh man said after a moment. “Sit here.”

Yuri obliged, folding his legs and leaning against the window. He looked up at Otabek expectantly, who was unclasping his violin case slowly. 

He sat opposite Yuri, mimicking his folded legs. The radiant swirls and lines framed Otabek in the most beautiful way as he lifted his violin in one fluid motion, making Yuri’s chest oddly tight and his lungs empty. 

“By the way,” Otabek murmured, bow already poised over the strings. “I’m aware of what day it is.”

Yuri sucked in a breath, making shocked eye contact with a smirking Otabek.

“Chopin’s birthday,” he finished teasingly, breaking into a grin. Yuri’s eyes widened, perfecting his look of bewilderment. “Just kidding. Although it _is_ Chopin’s birthday.” He paused, smirk fading to an expression of ardent... _something_. Yuri wasn’t sure. “Happy birthday, Yuratchka.”

Yuri knew the song as soon as the first note was drawn. It was Chopin’s second nocturne of Opus 9. His absolute favorite of Chopin, and he was certain he’d never mentioned it to Otabek. He’d never known that they shared a birthday, either.

But all those thoughts, cluttering and clamoring in his mind, were swept away with Otabek’s elegant music. It became quickly apparent that the beauty of the room wasn’t the only reason Otabek had brought him up here. The room had stunning acoustics, seeming to surround Yuri with the continuous flow of notes.

He battled between closing his eyes, resting his head against the window, and simply focusing on the song, or staring in wonder at the sight of Otabek’s eyes closed in concentration, his lip pinched under his teeth, hair tousled slightly from his helmet, muscular arms wielding this delicate instrument with the balance and poise of a prima ballerina. 

And it was all over so soon, the ending notes singing through the room so tragically. The emotion captured in Otabek’s eyes, once they opened, could rival Victor at the peak of his Yuuri obsession, Yuri thought to himself. But it quickly disappeared once he glanced up. “How was that?”

Yuri gaped. “Fucking God, Beka--”

Otabek frowned. “We’re in a mosque, Yura.”

“Fucking gosh,” he corrected. Otabek rolled his eyes. “That was too much for me.” And then Yuri couldn’t take the small pull of concern between the other man’s eyebrows. He scooted closer, closing the seemingly insurmountable gap between them, and threw his arms around Otabek. Their lips collided fervently, Yuri wrapping himself around Otabek in an effort to get as close as he could to this miracle of a man. Otabek, surprisingly, responded with a passion that matched Yuri’s. His hands couldn’t seem to decide where to settle, fluttering from Yuri’s shoulders to his hair to his waist to his hips. He roughly yanked Yuri’s hairtie out, freeing his hair from their braids, and entwined his fingers through Yuri’s blonde locks almost painfully.

Yuri slid his tongue over Otabek’s bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from the normally stoic man. He was enjoying this, Yuri could tell, but a sense of guilt settled somewhere in the back of Yuri’s mind. He pulled away slightly, pressing his mouth to Otabek’s ear.

“We’re in a mosque, Beka,” he murmured mockingly. The other man panted unevenly at Yuri’s neck, but disentangled himself almost immediately, leaning back on his hands. Yuri was almost entirely on his lap.

“Okay,” he said heavily, more to himself than Yuri. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Wait, that’s not what I meant-- “

Otabek looked at him, all his barriers scraped away. Yuri hadn’t even known they had existed until he was staring at the absence of them. But here Otabek was, hot-faced and gasping, with wild hair and heavy-lidded eyes. _Fucking God._

Yuri couldn’t help it. He grinned exultantly, barely resisting the urge to punch his fists in the air victoriously. “Want to continue this at my place?”

Otabek managed to glower rather successfully, given his current condition. “You’re taking advantage of me in my weakened state.” Another rough inhale. “Give me a second.”

“Do you have asthma or something?” 

An even more successful glare. “You’re lucky it’s your birthday, Plisetsky.” Slightly more controlled breathing. “It doesn’t help that you’re sitting _on top of me_ , by the way.”

Yuri slid off, wrapping his arms around his legs helpfully. “Better?”

Otabek shot him an almost desperate look. “Not really.” But he stood up anyway, reaching for his violin and bow. “Ready to go?”

The small Russian frowned petulantly. “Yeah. I like it in here, though.”

Otabek smiled, placing his violin back in its case. “Me, too.” He raked a hand through his hair, attempting to smooth it down. 

Yuri stood up, lacing their fingers together, and pulled them down the neverending stairs. 

Once they were outside they pulled their jackets and helmets back on. The sky was still bright, but the wall of clouds was thick overhead. Otabek started up the bike, and Yuri climbed up behind him. 

The ride back passed infinitely faster than before. Yuri was suddenly struggling to keep his eyes open, exhausted from the emotionally fraught morning. The snow had lightened up; only a few stray snowflakes caught his cheeks this time.

“What next?” he asked, once they were standing in the elevator in his apartment complex. Otabek gave him a sideways look, as if he knew what he was really asking.

“We compose for Eurasia,” he said neutrally. Yuri suppressed a sigh, but he caught Otabek’s hand with his own and squeezed gently.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ave maria: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bosouX_d8Y
> 
> chopin's frickin beautiful nocturne op. 9 no. 2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E6b3swbnWg
> 
> NOTE: this ^ is written for piano and i couldn't find a good enough violin transposition, so i guess use your imagination??


	14. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to clear up a bit for Yuri.

The composition had come to something that Yuri could only describe as a stalemate. They had finished the bare bones, the skeleton, of the entire song, but he wasn’t satisfied. It lacked _something_ , but he wasn’t sure quite what. Deep into the night he would run through different versions or keys of his part, and then he would switch and play a piano transposition of Otabek’s part. He was reluctant to say it, but it was probably due to his boyfriend’s limited time dedicated to composing. Lately, he’d only been able to manage two hours daily, whereas Yuri labored for hours from morning to night.

But the majority of what Otabek had written so far was golden. It was at once the antithesis and the perfect complement for Yuri’s wild creation. He was dying to perform it.

After the invitations had been sent out for the twenty-five pianists, Yuri had done some background research on Instagram. He recognized most of the names of what he’d identified as the “top competitors” (Otabek had simply rolled his eyes when this was brought up). While Otabek was finishing his homework on Yuri’s living room floor, Yuri was watching the past performances of the other musicians. Over and over and over again.

Namely, he was concerned about Japanese Yuuri’s old friend, Phichit Chulanont, and his accompanist Seung-gil. Yuri hadn’t seen them since they’d competed last year, but after watching a performance from last month he had identified them as the biggest competition. Leo de la Iglesia and Guang-Hong Ji, the Italian twins, and “the bitchy couple” from England (Yuri had dubbed JJ Leroy and Isabella Yang this after seeing their flashy onstage proposal) were also “threats” (Otabek had snickered periodically for hours after hearing this from Yuri).

Now, Otabek sat with his legs tucked under the coffee table, books and a laptop laying in front of him. The coffee table had been propped up against the wall ever since Yuri had moved in, until Otabek had asked to use it for homework. Which resulted in him asking why it was standing against the wall in the first place.

“It was a housewarming gift from the married assholes,” Yuri replied darkly, curling his toes at the edge of the table. Otabek poked his feet with the eraser of his pencil, dotting the cheetah pattern on his socks.

“What’s wrong with the married assholes? They don’t seem like assholes,” Otabek speculated, training his eyes back on the screen in front of him. He alternated between staring at some American novel, typing rapidly on his laptop, and glancing at Yuri (who was _trying_ not to distract him, but it wasn’t really working out).

“Mfgh,” Yuri grunted noncommittally, going back to his phone. Mila was currently bombarding him with texts about her new boyfriend from the Moscow Orchestra. Apparently he played the cello and liked sushi. Yuri didn’t really care. “How’s the book stuff going?”

Otabek cocked an eyebrow in his direction, fingers splayed against a worn paperback. “Book stuff?”

“You know. Homework. Reading. Smart people things.”

He tugged on his lip thoughtfully. It was a habit of his, Yuri had noticed. “Did you graduate high school?”

Yuri wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, I fucking graduated high school. Jeez.” A pause, and then, “I always wondered what it’d be like to go to an actual school. Stopped going when I was twelve, so--.” He cut himself off awkwardly.

Otabek looked up from his book. “You didn’t miss much. I hated high school. Nobody likes quiet kids.”

At that, Yuri smiled, sliding off the couch. “Yeah, but everybody likes badasses. Speaking of, when do you have to go to work?”

The other man reached for his phone and checked the time. “Twenty minutes. Want to co--”

“Yes, I do.” He was already halfway to his room. “Just let me get my coat. And can you make me a sandwich? I got really hungry last time.”

 

 

The ride to the club was long, and wet, and cold. Yuri spent the entirety of it with his face pressed between Otabek’s shoulder blades, eyes shut tight and fists shoved in his boyfriend’s pockets. Once they started to slow down, he opened his eyes to a peek of a black tattoo curling from below the collar of Otabek’s shirt. He’d seen it that day in the cafe, too, but he’d forgotten about it. He tugged the collar down an inch and Otabek promptly swatted his hand away. _Weeks_ of kissing, and Yuri still hadn’t seen him shirtless.

This club was a different one from last time. It was closer to campus, so Yuri suggested they drop off the motorcycle at Otabek’s dorm and walked the short distance instead.

“Won’t you be cold?”

“It won’t be fucking colder than _this_.” He slid off the seat of the bike and glanced over at Otabek, who was flipping through cards in his wallet to find his dorm key. “And I want to see your room.”

Otabek pressed his lips together, unlocking the door with a swipe. “It’s different from your apartment.”

Yuri thought back to all the times he’d been scolded for his lack of organization. “Yeah, I figured.” The Kazakh man took his hand and pulled him into the hall. Yuri was reminded uncannily of the hallway at the St. Petersburg Hall of Music. “Do you have a roommate?”

“Nope,” he answered, unlocking his own door and swinging it open. He flicked on the lights casually. “I’m a junior. Also, I’m only here for one semester, so...”

Yuri exhaled heavily, regarding the other man’s face. It was cast downward, examining the floor. “One semester. That fucking sucks, just so you know.”

“Yeah,” Otabek said quietly, turning to Yuri. He cupped the smaller man’s face with both his hands, eyes flicking over his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks. His eyes were inscrutable as they roamed over the smaller man’s face. Yuri frowned back, trying not to let his emotions leak through.

“Guess I’ll just have to visit.”

Otabek’s lip twitched, just inches away from Yuri. “Guess so.” Then Yuri smacked his hands away from his face as softly as he could.

“Let me see your room.” As he had expected, it was neat as a pin. Not a single t-shirt lay on the floor, and no tea cups littered the nightstand. The only things out of place were the dozens of books scattered across the room, and they didn’t seem to even _have_ a place. Except everywhere. 

A couple framed pictures sat on his desk (bare except for a jar filled with pencils and a stack of notebooks), and Yuri wandered over to look at them. He picked up the closest one, examining it thoughtfully. “Who’s this?” A young boy with shoulder-length black hair was laughing, tucked under Otabek’s arm. The sun was shining brightly on them both, and in the back of the picture was a magnificent mountain landscape.

Otabek appeared beside him, looking over his shoulder. “My brother, Camran. In Almaty.”

Yuri opened his mouth to ask a question, but the other man was tugging the picture away with a closed expression. “I’m going to be late for work.”

 

 

Yuri had forgotten how _loud_ clubs were. Or how much he’d loved dancing with Otabek. This time, he could grab him and pull him into a kiss whenever he wanted, which was often. Often enough that Otabek was starting to make fun of him.

“You’re so _hormonal_ ,” he snickered, headphones around his neck and an alcohol-free cocktail in his hand. DJs weren’t allowed to drink on the job, apparently.

Yuri kicked him, hard, from his perch on the table. “I’m going to remember that.” A moment later, “I still haven’t forgotten what happened in the mosque, by the way.”

Otabek blushed faintly and didn’t respond, taking a long sip of his drink. Yuri hopped off the table and hooked his arm around the taller man. “Let’s dance, Beka.”

He responded immediately, setting down the vividly orange drink and clasping their hands together. Though the music throbbed loud and fast in the club, Otabek twirled him around slowly, drawing him back to his chest in one motion. A content smile rested on his face as he moved them around the DJ booth in a kind of waltz. 

Something about the peaceful expression on his face sparked a new thought in Yuri’s mind. “Hey, Altin,” he mumbled into Otabek’s chest. The other man raised his eyebrows in a silent response, prodding him to go on. “When did you start, you know, liking me?” The words felt clumsy and awkward in Yuri’s mouth.

Otabek exhaled in a brief laugh. “I don’t know. You looked so intriguing that day in Katya’s Cafe, with your angry face and your beautiful hands. You have beautiful hands, by the way.” He blinked bashfully, staring over Yuri’s head.

Yuri yanked on his ear, forcing him to look down at him. “Go on.”

Otabek wound his fingers between Yuri’s, lifting their hands up over his head and spinning him around in slow motion. “I watched you play that Moonlight Sonata like it had killed your mother. You were so angry, and so sad, and I wanted to know why. Of course,” he added, with another short laugh, “I still don’t really know why. But I think I know you better now. The way you play has changed. After watching your old performances, I could see that. But your beautiful hands still make beautiful music. You’ve evolved into something nobody has seen before. At least, _I’ve_ never seen anything like it before.”

Yuri felt an inexplicable urge to start weeping. _Damn it_ , he thought to himself. This compulsion to turn into a leaky faucet whenever Otabek opened his mouth was getting out of control.

Almost as if he knew he needed time to compose himself, Otabek led him through a series of simple moves, twisting him gently into a dip and then flipping him around so that his spine was pressed against Otabek’s stomach. They swayed like that for a while.

“But that wasn’t when I started liking you,” Otabek continued, talking quietly in Yuri’s ear. “Well. Liking you in earnest,” he corrected. “That would be the day I got back from Kazakhstan, in early February. I just wanted to play music and forget about everything that had happened in those few days. But I was afraid if I went home and sat by myself, all I would do is stare at the wall and think of all the things I could have done, and didn’t do.” At this point, he seemed to be talking more to himself than Yuri. Yuri was hopelessly lost in his mazelike monologue. “So I called you. The angry pianist that played music like he was looking for a soulmate in the notes. And returning to Russia, playing that song with you, felt like coming home.” Things were starting to become more clear. 

They were motionless now, cheeks pressed together and hands tangled. “What about you, Yuri? When did you fall in love with me?”

Otabek’s almost teasing, yet so sincere words cause Yuri’s brain to stutter to a halt. Hearing the words spoken aloud made it real, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it all to be so real. “Fucking hell, Altin. How am I supposed to beat that?”

He could feel Otabek’s lips curling into a smile against his neck. “It’s not a competition, Yura.”

Yuri turned around, giving up any pretense of being the fierce and unfeeling tiger of Russia. Green eyes wide and mouth slightly opened, he felt like the breath had just been knocked out of him. “I think I want to go home.”

Otabek frowned, brow furrowing. “I can take you if you want--”

“No. I want to go home with you. To your home. Not my home. And I want to sleep.” 

 

 

They didn’t really sleep. Otabek called another DJ friend to come and stand in for the next two hours of his shift. Yuri kept his face half-hidden in his shirt the entire walk home. A mixture of snow and rain hurled down from the sky with all the vigor it could muster, but Yuri’s thoughts were miles away from what his skin was feeling.

They didn’t really sleep. When they reached Otabek’s dorm, Yuri peeled off his wet layers and borrowed large but dry clothes from Otabek. He finally got to see the elusive tattoo, twining dark and graceful across the other man’s spine and shoulder blades. An intricate tree, solemn and noble and beautiful. He made Otabek lay face down on the bed, just so he could trace each branch, braided and knotted together. It was so quiet, all Yuri could hear was their steady breathing.

They didn’t really sleep. Otabek made him sit perfectly still in front of him, yanking on blonde strands of hair until they were manipulated into perfect braids. He read Yuri passages from his favorite books. There were so many, Yuri lost count of all the titles and poems and metaphors. Otabek offered to play him music when Yuri yawned into his shoulder, but he shook his head. He wanted to stay as close as he could, and a violin presented a rather significant barrier.

They didn’t really sleep. Instead, they lay with their heads on the same pillow, bowed together, hands and legs intertwined. Yuri whispered to him stories from his childhood, memories with his grandfather, the car accident that took his parents. Otabek mumbled his own recollections of the times before everything became so complicated. Before he realized his mother was a hopeless addict and his sister was becoming one too, before he realized he couldn’t do anything but watch his brother get hurt over and over again. Yuri listened, and understood, and held Otabek’s hands in his own as the strongest person he knew showed his weaknesses.

In the sleepy fog of the depths of night, everything was becoming clear to Yuri. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of all over the place for me. I've had Otabek's backstory in my head since the beginning, but I had no idea how to get him to talk about it. Sorry if it sucks lol.


	15. Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *ages up characters so it's not illegal* *makes characters do illegal things anyway* lol sorry guys don't drive without a license kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Otabek plays for Yuri is Agape. Just wanted to say that at the beginning so we're all on the same page (pun intended).

Yuri had never been this content with his life. Or this stressed out.

Every morning, he threw himself out of bed, texting Otabek throughout the morning about minor changes and possible revisions while he alternated between scribbling notes and testing them out on the piano. Otabek normally wouldn’t reply until after class, when he was already on his way to Yuri’s, but it made the Russian feel more productive to inform him of every thought that went through his head. 

Thank God Otabek was a patient person.

The morning after Yuri had spent the night at Otabek’s, he’d waken up to a cup of coffee on the nightstand and a note pinned underneath it. It gave him an eerie sense of deja vu, when he thought back to the morning after Otabek came back from Kazakhstan. _Class until one_ , it read. _Then I’m taking you to Katya’s_.

Once they were there, Yuri had asked Otabek if he wanted to talk about it while they were both more conscious. He’d nodded, stumbling over explanations and clarifications in a discomfited way, piecing together a narrative that made Yuri’s stomach hurt. But he was determined to show Otabek that he could understand.

The Kazakh man fiercely adored his brother, even lived for him. In the short, sparse words that Otabek had uttered about Camran, Yuri could tell there wasn’t anything more important to him. But their father had been out of the picture for years and his mother was an unstable alcoholic, which had left the Altin boys to fend for their own most days of the week. Otabek had made it out with his violin and his good grades, but his mother staunchly refused to let Otabek take care of his brother once he’d created a better life for himself.

With brown eyes trained on the mug of tea in front of him, the Kazakh relayed an explanatory story to Yuri. In his second year of college, while he was still in Almaty, he’d come home to a house that had clearly gone without food for weeks, and his brother hadn’t gone to school in days. He was getting old enough to start making his own bad decisions, and Otabek was horrified of seeing his brother repeat the same mistakes his mother and older sister had made. There was nothing he could do but finish college and come back to try and pry him away from his mother for what felt like the hundredth time.

Then they’d sat in silence for a couple minutes, Yuri grasping for the right words. If there were any words for this sort of thing. Finally, he’d come up with, “I’m sorry.” It was the best he could do, and Otabek had taken his hand from across the table and squeezed it gently.

“I just want to play music with you,” he said, thankfully in a voice less torn. In the next hour, Yuri put more into his music than he’d ever done before, using the piano keys to say what his words couldn’t. 

 

 

“Beka, I think it’s damn near perfect,” Yuri pronounced one afternoon, staring intently at the piece. Otabek swiveled his head around, eyes widening.

“I thought you’d never say that.”

Yuri snorted. “You forget this isn’t my first time around the composition block. I’m not a composing virgin like you. I know when something’s perfect.”

Otabek furrowed his brow in confusion. “Okay, that was a weird analogy, but okay.” He muffled a laugh in his hand, parrying Yuri’s smack with his other hand. 

Yuri scooted towards the coffee table to grab his coffee mug, Sofia curled in his lap. He was reluctant to admit it, but the table was proving to be much more useful than he’d expected. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a smug Otabek smirking slightly, but the expression was gone in a flash.

“So that leaves ten days for practice. Then--”

“We win!” Yuri interrupted, punching a fist in the air. Otabek broke into a grin. He reached for the scattered papers and shuffled them into a stack, laying them on the table. Then he leaned over Yuri and grabbed his violin and bow from the couch. 

“Okay, now I want to play you something else. Seeing as we’re done and everything.” Though his words were light and casual, he licked his lips nervously and kept shooting Yuri uncertain glances. 

Yuri had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Otabek had played in front of Yuri dozens of times. _That boy could get nervous over anything_ , he thought to himself, both with irritation and affection.

The small blonde leaned against the couch, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees. Otabek sat cross-legged in front of him, like he’d done so many times in the past six weeks. Yuri didn’t think he would ever grow tired of it.

“I composed this for you.”

Yuri’s eyes widened just a fraction. But before he could completely digest what Otabek had said, he was already playing.

The song was sweet and mesmerizing and seemed both light and solemn at once. It contained volumes of words both said and unsaid, but Yuri understood everything Otabek was trying to express. The key changes were complex, the melody was simple, and Yuri loved every bit of it. 

Nobody had ever written him a song before.

It was over too soon. Otabek looked up as soon as he was done, uncertainty painted on each of his features. Yuri, exasperated, leaned over and slid his hands around Otabek’s neck, pulling him into a kiss.

“When we get back, I want you to do it again so I can play that on the piano,” Yuri breathed quietly, laying his head on Otabek’s shoulder. Strong arms circled him in a feeling that was becoming so familiar, and so good.

“Back from what?”

With that, the Russian bounded up, startling Otabek, and yanked on his boyfriend’s arm. “I’m taking you on a date. We need to get out of this goddamn apartment.”

 

 

“Why don’t you just give me directions?”

“No, I want it to be a surprise!”

“Yura, I’m _not_ letting you drive my motorcycle.”

“Why not?”

“Can you even drive a car?”

“Well, no, but I know how to ride a bicycle. And walk. That counts for something.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

They bickered back and forth outside the grand doors of the Victorian-style complex, Otabek with two helmets clutched under his arms and Yuri drowning in his leather jacket.

“I’m nineteen, Beka. I’m the responsible father of a cat and have a successful career as a concert pianist. I can drive to the city limits of St. Petersburg.”

“So that’s where we’re going!”

“Oh my _God_ , Altin, just let me drive it,” Yuri groaned.

Otabek closed his eyes, heaving a dramatic sigh worthy of his boyfriend (or even Victor Nikiforov, if Yuri was being honest). “Without any lessons?”

Yuri’s lips slipped into a smile. He knew he’d won. “You can give me lessons on the way there. For like two blocks, and then you gotta close your eyes.”

“Do you have any idea how terrifying that sounds? Closing my eyes?”

Yuri just grinned devilishly, snagging the smaller helmet from his arms and jamming it over his long locks. He zipped up the jacket and swung a leg over the motorcycle, giving his best impression of Otabek. “Hello, my name is Otabek and I’m from Kazakhstan. I play violin and I’m super whipped for my boyfr--”

“Oh, shut up,” Otabek snapped, but he was smiling. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Trust me, I know,” Yuri responded, twisting around to peck him on the cheek. And thus ensued the lessons.

Otabek inhaled deeply. He sounded like a parent about to send their child off to school for the first time. “Okay, _this_ is the hand clutch lever, _this_ is the throttle, that right there is the handbrake, and then the lever on the right side is the rear brake. Just feather the throttle to transition, then release the clutch. Oh, and this is the kill switch, and here’s the start button.” Another deep breath. “Okay, turn the key.”

Yuri started the motorcycle under Otabek’s continuous instruction, then used his legs to push them forward. “Yura, the kickstand.”

“Oh, shit, right.”

Then they were off. It was jerky at first, and _nothing_ like riding a bicycle, Yuri thought to himself. Every muscle in his body was tensed, but after the first couple blocks passed he began to gain confidence. 

“This is so illegal,” Otabek groaned in his ear. Yuri nodded, exhilarated. Tendrils of hair whipped around his cheeks and neck, filling him with a sense of elation. 

“Um, close your eyes?” Yuri yelled over the roar of the motorcycle. He thought he could hear a faint snort from over his shoulder.

“Um, no.” But he tucked his face closer to Yuri’s shoulder anyway, arms wrapped tight around Yuri’s thin waist.

Focusing on driving a completely new vehicle, while trying to remember how to go somewhere he hadn’t been in years, was taking all of Yuri’s brainpower. He drove slowly, winding through the streets of St. Petersburg for what felt like an hour, until the buildings began to get farther and farther apart. Finally, he recognized the ancient stone street that led to their destination. 

He turned, feeling their bodies shift in tune with the bike, and drove slowly down the path until the lake was in sight. “We’re here!”

Otabek’s hands left Yuri’s sides and he hopped off the bike expertly. “That was... not as bad as I expected.”

Yuri raised his eyebrows churlishly. “What did you expect? A head-on collision with a bus?”

“It was certainly a possibility.”

Yuri ignored that, grabbing Otabek’s hand and pulling him the rest of the way down the path. It gradually narrowed, stones growing rougher and sparser until the path was just a heavily trodden line through snow and spring mud.

The frozen lake of Yuri’s adolescence slowly came into view amidst skeleton trees. It was at once both quaint and majestic. For the first time in Yuri’s memory, it was also completely devoid of people. He was glad.

“I used to come here all the time when I first started training with Yakov,” Yuri said, eyes roaming the lake. His hands were jammed deep in the jacket’s pockets for warmth. 

“It’s so pretty,” Otabek murmured. “I wish I had ice skates.”

Yuri shot him a sideways glance. “Me, too. I don’t know how to ice skate, though.”

A broad smile broke out on Otabek’s face, and he started laughing. “Neither do I.” Then they were both laughing, imagining it.

“I want to do everything with you,” Yuri said, after he’d grabbed the other man’s hand again and led him to the edge of the ice. It was lined with snow, but the middle of the lake was clear of it. 

“Even the things we don’t know how to do?” Otabek asked, still smiling slightly.

“ _Especially_ those things.” 

 

 

Later, after an hour of sliding around gracelessly on the ice to the Frank Sinatra that Otabek played on his phone, they drove back to St. Petersburg. Otabek insisted stubbornly on driving this time, and Yuri spent the ride back with his arms wrapped tightly around him and his eyes closed. Otabek’s song from earlier that day played on repeat in the back of his mind, and he imagined twirling around the lake with Otabek, ice skates on, to the harmonious sound of his violin. Yuri nestled closer, a faint smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I researched for this chapter: violin agape, how to ride a motorcycle, are lakes still frozen in st. petersburg in march, how much fluff is too much fluff (sike there’s never too much)
> 
> also, here's a pretty good violin cover of agape: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3rZ6luCzPk


	16. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for all the drama in this chapter, but there's way too many sorries already. All my sorries were put into this chapter. #sorryguys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter outline has changed again!

It was three days before Eurasia United. Yuri had spent the entirety of the last couple days at Yakov’s studio, perfecting and perfecting and perfecting. Yakov didn’t seem to like Otabek much, and Yuri suspected his boyfriend was rather scared of the old man, but Lilia and him got along smashingly. Lilia had even asked them to come to dinner with her one night, and Otabek was about to accept the invitation when Yuri hastily stepped in and interjected some excuse.

Whatever hours Otabek could squeeze in between class, work, and homework he spent with Yuri, anxiously perfecting alongside him with his mouth pressed in an anxious line and hands gripping his violin, putting all his emotion and energy into every run through.

Currently, they were practicing in Yuri’s living room. Yuri’s fingers were actually sore from running through the fiery and passionate notes over and over again. He couldn’t imagine what Otabek’s felt like, pressed meticulously against the strings for hours. 

The last note sang through the apartment, and Yuri lifted his hands off the keys prematurely, cutting off the song. Otabek lowered his violin, confused.

“I don’t want to practice anymore.” 

Otabek raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, you do.”

“No, seriously. My hands fucking hurt. And we aren’t going to make any more progress today, so let’s just watch a movie or something.” Otabek still eyed him reluctantly, so Yuri gave him an imploring look. “ _And_ we need to rest for the trip tomorrow...”

Otabek looked stricken. “The trip?”

The Russian squinted his eyes at him. “Uh, yeah. You know, to Eurasia United?”

“I thought it was in St. Petersburg?” His voice grew a bit panicky at the end.

Yuri’s mouth fell open. “Oh my God. Of all the things you Googled stalking me, you couldn’t Google the location of the _biggest competition ever_? That you’re _competing in_?” He felt a tinge of guilt at the other man’s slightly wounded look, but he was still aghast that Otabek didn’t know. “It’s in Barcelona, Altin. Jesus Christ.”

At his last words, Otabek’s brown eyes grew cold. Colder than Yuri had ever seen. “Sorry. Did it ever cross your mind to actually tell me?” Before he could answer, Otabek went on in that tight, constricted tone of his that Yuri had never heard. “Maybe you were too busy calling me an asshole.” The word was foreign in Otabek’s normally calm voice, snapping through Yuri’s ears like a rubber band.

He picked up his leather jacket and violin and walked calmly out the door of Yuri’s apartment. The door closed with a soft click behind him. Yuri would have felt better if he’d slammed it.

And Yuri was left, blinking in shock, alone on the piano bench.

 

 

_I’m sorry_. Yuri wondered if it was the same kind of sorry Otabek had said before the rush of angry words had tumbled out of his mouth. 

Yuri waited for the usual second text, and then third, but those two words remained the only ones on the screen. Frustrated, he chucked his phone at the wall. It fell right onto the impeccable floor with an ominous crack, no cushion of clothes or papers to soften the landing. Stupid clean apartment.

He stood up to inspect the damage. A long fracture ran from the camera to the home button, but it still clicked on. _Me too_ , he decided to send after a long mental debate with himself. _You aren’t an asshole._ He closed his eyes, sinking down to the ground and knocking his head against the wall behind him.

_I know_ , his phone buzzed. Yuri wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. _Funny that you still call me an asshole._ Definitely cry.

_Habit. Sorry. You’re not an asshole._

_Bad habit._

Yuri concentrated on breathing in and out calmly. He had no idea what to say. So he just waited it out. Otabek took a very, very long time to elaborate.

Finally. _It actually doesn’t bug me that much. It’s just too much sometimes._

Yuri desperately wanted to ask him to come back, but he was so ashamed of himself. He tucked his face between his knees, burying his hands in his hair. It was long enough now that it brushed his collarbones.

Hating himself, he tapped out _Please come back_.

Minutes passed. Enough for Yuri to consider throwing himself out the window, along with his piano. _Can’t. Gotta pack for Eurasia._

Air whooshed out of him in a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. That was code for “I forgive you and I’m coming with you, but I need space to get over your chronic supreme asshole-ness.” At least, Yuri hoped.

 

 

He was curled up in his bed that night, watching _The Aristocats_ on Netflix and trying not to hate himself, when his phone buzzed.

_Trying to book a ticket. What flight/airline?_

Yuri fought the rising hope in his gut, unsuccessfully, and clicked open a new window on his laptop. _I’ll email you the info on my flight. Once I book a flight._ Yakov usually booked his flights for him, but since their awkward separation before Russian Nationals he’d purposefully left Yuri to fend for his own. _I actually don’t know how to do this at all_.

Yuri could practically hear Otabek’s eye roll through the phone. _Do you want me to help you?_

He closed his eyes, flopping on his back and staring at the ceiling. Otabek had seemingly forgiven him, but self-loathing permeated every corner of his brain. Yuri was barely civil around people he even liked. And he was almost cruel to the people he loved. 

_Yes please. If that’s okay_. Though he was typing the words, not saying them, they felt alien to him. Stiff, and polite, and almost saccharine. Hopefully not asshole-y, though.

_Who are you? What have you done with Yuri Plisetsky?_ Before Yuri could respond, _I’ll be over in ten minutes._

 

 

Yuri was still anxiously trying to focus on his Disney movie when he heard Otabek’s quiet knock at the door. He shuffled through the hall and opened the door, forcing himself to make eye contact. A dull ache was concentrated somewhere in his abdomen.

Otabek wasn’t smiling, but that was normal. He wasn’t glaring either. Everything from the set of his mouth to the impermeable look in his eyes was completely neutral. Yuri wanted to scream.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled instead. He’d said and texted those words more times in the last hour than ever before in his life.

The Kazakh man rolled his eyes, catching Yuri off guard. “If I’d known you were going to react like this...” he trailed off. “Have you never been called out on your... personality quirks before?”

“My personality quirks?” Yuri repeated. “Is that a nice way of saying ‘my bullshit’?” The twitch at Otabek’s lips confirmed his suspicion. “And yes, I have. I just don’t usually care.”

“I must be pretty special, then.” And before Yuri knew it, he was being gathered up into a bear hug, face squished into Otabek’s chest.

“You are,” the Russian whispered hoarsely into the thick fabric of Otabek’s jacket. And of course, _of course_ , tears were stinging at the corners of his eyes. 

“God _dammit_ ,” he burst out, detaching himself and dabbing at his eyes. “Why the _fuck_ \--” now rubbing roughly at his eyes with his knuckles, “--does this always happen?”

Otabek caught his wrists and held them forcefully away from his face. Like after Le Cygne, he examined Yuri’s face closely. “Your eyes are pretty when you cry.” 

“Doesn’t make it any more pleasant,” Yuri muttered grimly, attempting to yank his wrists away. Otabek held fast, and the smaller man eventually gave up, melting rather stupidly into his chest again. “Want to watch a movie with me? Well, the last half. I started it like an hour ago. I’m watching with Russian subtitles... wait, that doesn’t matter, you’re an English maestro or whatever. Still--”

Otabek placed a finger over Yuri’s lips, smirking slightly. “First,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips over Yuri’s forehead. “You’re going to learn how to book an airplane ticket.”

 

 

Halfway through the incredible pain that was booking airplane tickets (similar to doing laundry and paying bills, Yuri thought to himself), he realized he hadn’t asked the gross couple if they were coming to watch.

“Of course, Yurio!” Victor’s gross voice sang from his phone speakers. Yuri grimaced, but, in all honesty, he was glad to hear that they would be coming.

“We wouldn’t miss your first Eurasia United,” Yuuri’s voice chimed in. “And I want to watch Phichit!”

Yuri told them what flight Otabek and him would be on, then hastily disconnected before Victor could start moaning about how old Yuri was getting.

“Beka,” he murmured into his pillow, scrolling through old Instagram pictures of Phichit’s. That damn crack on his screen threatened to cut his finger with each swipe. “Come watch a movie with me.”

Otabek was curled up in the ratty armchair in the corner of Yuri’s room. They hadn’t cleaned this part of the apartment, so it had been piled with unfolded clothes. They currently lay on the floor in a halo around the chair.

“Hold on, just running through the confirmations,” he mumbled in reply, face lit with the blue glow of his laptop. Yuri threw a pillow at him, and he swatted it out of the air before it hit his face. “You know, I’m missing two classes for this. _And_ five hours of work.”

“ _But_ ,” Yuri replied, pushing locks of hair out of his eyes and smiling playfully at him. “You’ll make so much money from competing. Depending on how we place. The competition takes in over half a million dollars, and the last place makes $5,000. Hopefully we’ll place in the top five and make at least $50,000.”

Otabek’s eyes bulged. “ _What?_ ” he breathed.

Yuri stifled a laugh in his pillow. “Okay, I’m treading carefully here,” he started. “But you really should have Googled this competition before you hopped on board with me.”

The other man rolled his eyes, though still clearly struggling to digest what Yuri had said. Taking advantage of his distraction, Yuri tossed another well-aimed pillow at him and effectively snapped the laptop shut. “Come on, Beka.”

Otabek huffed a breath, but got up, leaving his laptop on the chair. “I left all my stuff at my dorm,” he said, sitting cross-legged on the bed next to a sprawled Yuri. Yuri rummaged around in the blankets and pulled out his own laptop, _The Aristocats_ still displayed on the screen.

“So we can pick it up on the way to the airport. In the morning,” Yuri added, peeking a look at him out of the corner of his eye. He looked hesitant, tugging on his lip thoughtfully.

“Okay,” he said finally. Yuri shot up straight, his eyes lighting up. “Stop it. Sit back down. We’re just watching a movie. Jesus Christ,” Otabek muttered under his breath.

Yuri snuggled back under his fuzzy blanket, wrapping the tiger print around his head. He tugged on the sleeve of Otabek’s shirt, pulling him down. “You gotta lay down too, though. That’s how this works.”

Otabek’s lip twitched. “How what works?” But he sank down, letting Yuri wrap his thin arms around him. 

“Cuddling, asshole.” The words were out before he could take them back. He immediately retracted his arms, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Sorry,” he said through his hand.

Otabek rolled his eyes. “It’s not the casual insults, Yuri, it’s the not-telling-me-anything-about-Eurasia-because-you’re-a-pretentious-pianist-and-you-assumed-I-knew thing.” He dragged Yuri’s arms back. “Just forget about it.”

“I probably won’t,” Yuri mumbled, flashing back to the chilling moments when he thought he’d messed up for good. “But okay.”

He pressed play on the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An irrelevant side note- i feel it's slightly unrealistic for otayuri fics to portray otabek as NEVER getting annoyed with Yuri. just a lil explanation for this chapter.


	17. Barcelona

Yuri woke up tangled in a knot of limbs, blankets, and pillows. Sofia lay perched on top of Otabek’s hip, purring and kneading gently at the covers. Through his squinted eyes, vision blurred with morning drowsiness, he could make out the sight of Otabek’s face pressed into the pillow, black hair scattered in messy strands and contrasting starkly with the white pillows. One hand lay just in front of his face, curled into a loose fist. The other was clutched in Yuri’s hand, somewhere in the blankets.

Though they had fallen asleep together multiple times before, this was the first time Yuri had woken up before him. He’d never actually _seen_ Otabek asleep. The other man usually left before Yuri could wake up.

There were many, many things Yuri would remember about this day for the rest of his life. There were also many things he would forget, as it was full of small details and offhand words that were overlooked in place of the unforgettable events of the next hours. But Yuri would never forget the way he slowly reached out, tracing a line from Otabek’s cheek to his jaw, and watched dark eyes gradually flutter open. Otabek was a vision in the morning, a muted version of himself. 

“G’morning,” he mumbled into the pillow, wrapping his fingers around Yuri’s outstretched hand. Pulling it to his lips.

“We have a shit ton to get done today,” Yuri replied. Otabek nodded, abandoning Yuri’s hand for his tussled blonde hair. He pushed his fingers through it, raking it back from Yuri’s face, and knotting it in his fist at the back of Yuri’s head. “When’s our flight?”

“Three hours.”

Yuri yawned and stretched languorously, still horizontal. “Two days until the big stage.” Saying it made it real, and his entire body buzzed with the nerves and excitement of what he’d been dying for his entire life. He didn’t just want to compete in Eurasia United, he’d _lived_ for it. 

Part of him wondered what it would feel like to have it behind him. He was banking on competing for years, but Victor always told him there was nothing like standing on the Eurasia stage for the first time. 

Pushing these intrusive thoughts from his mind, he hopped out of bed and pulled on Otabek’s black hoodie, discarded on the floor the night before. Otabek groaned into his pillow and rolled clumsily out of bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“How are you this tired? You always get up at the ass-crack of dawn,” Yuri said, rummaging in his dresser for matching socks.

“Yesterday was emotionally taxing. Also, you kept me up all night with your sleep-talking.” Otabek punctuated the sentence with a yawn. 

Honestly, Yuri’s surprised he managed two full sentences. “Wait, I sleep-talk?”

Otabek raised his eyebrows. “Nobody’s told you that before?”

“I’ve never _slept_ with anyone before, you idiot. Except you. Have I done it before?” He’s a mixture of curious and apprehensive.

Otabek nodded, a hint of a smile appearing. “Yeah. It’s not, like, cohesive or anything. Just gibberish. It’s funny.” Yuri chucked a pillow at him. “Sometimes you sing, too.”

“Oh, God.” A blush rose across Yuri’s neck and up his face. “I’m a terrible singer.”

Otabek’s smile grew slightly. Before he could say anything, the Russian stomped out of the bedroom, muttering “I’m getting coffee” over his shoulder.

 

 

When they stepped out of Yuri’s apartment complex thirty minutes later, it was pouring rain. He feigned indifference, but was intensely worried for the state of his expensive suits tucked carefully in his purple cheetah print suitcase. Otabek raised a single eyebrow at him. “You could call your musician friends to pick you up,” he offered hesitantly.

Yuri shot a look at the bike. It _would_ be impractical to carry a suitcase and his backpack... especially once Otabek got his things from his dorm. “Okay,” he replied, placing his backpack on his suitcase and leaning them both against the door. Then he slid his arms carefully around Otabek underneath his leather jacket, in a rare public embrace. Yuri professed to hate PDA, but he didn’t think this counted. The street was devoid of people, and he couldn’t help himself. Although rain was running down Otabek’s jacket in steady streams, clumping their hair in water-laden strands, the cloth of his black t-shirt was warm and dry. “I’ll meet you there?”

Otabek squeezed back. “Don’t worry.” 

He waited until Yuri got Victor on the phone before starting his bike and disappearing through the damp streets of St. Petersburg. Yuri watched him go, phone pressed against his face as Victor babbled enthusiastically in his ear.

It seemed like he was standing in the rain for only moments before the two rolled up in Victor’s ostentatious car, the older Russian waving from the driver’s seat as Yuuri hopped out to help with Yuri’s bag. 

“Where’s Otabek?” he asked under his breath, peering into the blonde’s face with masked concern.

Yuri fixed his standard scowl onto his face. “Picking his shit up from his place. He’ll meet us there.” Yuuri nodded, sparing only a glance for the gaudy purple suitcase. Yuri kept his backpack slung over his shoulder as he slid into the backseat of the car, keeping his hood drawn up despite the cessation of rain inside the car. 

The ride to the airport was quiet. Victor, surprisingly subdued, asked him questions about his composition and Otabek’s playing. The violinists had never really talked before, thankfully. Yuri couldn’t imagine two more different people, and yet sometimes he saw sliver-thin similarities between the two. He chalked it up to some secret violinist quality. Honestly, the public compared Yuri and Victor so much that he sometimes forgot _he_ wasn’t a violinist. 

They got to the airport two hours early. Yuuri bought them dry croissants and fancy coffees from Starbucks, Victor jabbered on the phone with Yakov (arriving the next day), and Yuri watched the rain slide down the window, counting down the seconds until he absolutely couldn’t help but text Otabek. _Where are you?_

Moments passed into minutes. _Slight issue. Possible change of plans. But I_ will _make it to Eurasia with you._ What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Another text popped up. _I’ll be at the airport in ten to explain_.

Yuri left the couple at a table outside the Starbucks cafe for a seat directly adjacent to the nearest doorway. He watched cars drive up, splattering droplets across the sidewalk, and then watched them drive away after depositing people and luggage. Then he went back to distracting himself with social media, swinging his legs anxiously and tapping the table to the sweeping tune of Otabek’s song. 

The sight of Otabek sliding to a stop in front of the door and swinging it open violently, hair slicked with rain, somehow caught Yuri off guard, though he’d been waiting uneasily for upwards of fifteen minutes. He stood up too fast, blood rushing to the top of his head. Otabek scanned the wide airport terminal before spotting Yuri standing almost directly in front of him.

“Yura!” He closed the distance quickly, face flushed and cheeks wet. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, tell me what the hell is going on,” Yuri said brusquely. He was determined not to make any assumptions, even though the look on Otabek’s face was unfamiliar and unprecedented. It tugged at the pit of his stomach in a painful and unpleasant way, similar to when he’d first seen Sofia at the pound. Or something like that.

And so Otabek obliged. “I need to go to Kazakhstan,” he said in a breath, a mixture of a million emotions melding into a flat statement. When Yuri was a kid, he’d play with paint and brushes after school, mixing all the beautiful colors together until they turned into a slushy brown. That was what Otabek’s voice sounded like. “Apparently my mother’s been living with liver failure. She was just taken to the hospital this morning. My brother just called. It’s, um, it’s urgent.”

Yuri picked apart each word. It was all at once a helpless plea, a distraught apology, a bitter explanation, a silent oath. He carefully separated each color, all while wholly caught in the other man’s desperate gaze. “I understand,” he said, reaching out to link his pinkie momentarily with Otabek’s.

And somehow, he did. Yuri had never had a brother, or a mother, or even a significant other until just over a month ago. All he’d had was a cat and a grandfather, and the continuous promise of the reliable sound of piano keys. He knew he’d give anything to keep those gifts. He’d already lost one. Otabek had lost things too. Yuri would do whatever it took to prevent him losing something else. “Bring my love to Almaty,” he whispered, standing on his tiptoes to brush the other man’s ear with his lips. He wasn’t sure when he’d decided he was no longer dancing around the word, but it fell thick and heavy in the small space between them.

Otabek found Yuri’s hands clenched in fists by his sides and squeezed them, hard. “I’ll return it to you in Barcelona, don’t worry,” he replied fiercely. Tucking Yuri’s head under his chin. “And then take it with me to St. Petersburg.” Yuri clung to him in a fervent manner that most certainly crossed the PDA border. “And keep it with me wherever we decide to go. Don’t worry.”

“You keep telling me not to worry,” Yuri choked out, fighting for his curt and clipped tone. It failed him. 

Otabek laughed once, a threadbare laugh. “I think it’s more for me than for you.” Then he released him, shaking the water out of his hair. “I’m going to try to book a flight for Almaty. Text me before you leave. And when you land.”

Yuri nodded hard, looking around for Victor and Yuuri. They were still jabbering, oblivious, at the Starbucks table. Crumbs from the abhorrent croissants littered the surface. “When will you get to Barcelona?”

A vague mix of panic and uncertainty flitted across Otabek’s face. “Um. I don’t know. Tomorrow, hopefully. At the latest, the morning of the competition.”

Yuri forced a smile on and beckoned towards the airline service desks. “See you later.” 

 

 

Victor and Yuuri ushered him quickly through security and to the gate. He offered only blunt explanations for Victor’s endless questioning, until he saw Yuuri smack the older man’s arm out of the corner of his vision. 

Then the Japanese man began to ask him about the piano piece of his composition, and all the technical components of it. Although Yuri had to fight back the urge to hurl insults and terse retorts, he was almost glad for the distraction. They conversed in short statements over each aspect of the song, Yuri using his hands to explain to the other man what he’d created. Despite the apprehensive and sick feeling seated firmly in his stomach, he felt a slight tinge of pride when Yuuri’s eyebrows migrated to his hairline over the description of the composition.

“I can’t wait to hear it, Yuri,” he said expressively. “Phichit sent me a recording of his composition, you know. I don’t want to compare, because they’re so different, but you might just win this on your first go.”

It was Yuri’s turn to look surprised. “Phichit Chulanont’s your best friend. Isn’t that, like, disloyalty or something?”

Yuuri laughed, tugging the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands. Victor, sitting beside them with legs crossed imperiously, leaned over to listen in on their conversation. “No, just a simple observation from an innocent pianist bystander. I didn’t say you were _going_ to win. Phichit is amazing at what he does. So are the others.”

Now that the initial shock of Otabek’s abrupt departure had passed, Yuri let himself brood over Eurasia United. A large portion of his thoughts still drifted to Kazakhstan and the turmoil Otabek was experiencing, but the familiar pressure of the competition was back in his veins.

A woman’s disembodied voice emanated from the loudspeakers overhead, announcing their flight’s boarding times. “Time to go, Yuratchka,” Victor chirped, resting a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. Yuri shook it off.

“I have ears, old man.”

 

 

It took forever to take off. Yuri muttered obscenities under his breath, resisting the urge to kick the seat in front of him. St. Petersburg faded below them as they steadily climbed the air. The couple’s seats were a couple rows ahead of his own, and the empty seat beside him, where Otabek would have been sitting, made the sick feeling swell again in his stomach. He wondered whether or not he was in the air yet. 

It took forever to fly across Europe. Yuri was never one for books, but Otabek’s copy of _Dracula_ sat in the bottom of his bag. He’d nabbed it from the other man’s desk the last time he was in his dorm room after Otabek told him he’d like it.

So far, he didn’t like it. It was dry, and bizarre, and all the wrong kinds of creepy. But it was better than staring out airplane windows, dwelling on things he couldn’t do anything about and being blinded by the clouds below him. 

The airplane coffee tasted like what he imagined roots would taste like. 

It took forever to unboard the plane. Yuri didn’t bother standing awkwardly in the aisle. He just sat in his uncomfortable airplane seat, knees hugged to his chest and _Dracula_ held in front of his face. He still didn’t like it. People squeezed by each other like sheep, bumbling down the aisle until Yuri deemed the plane empty enough to venture out. Victor and Yuuri waited patiently for him to drag his bag down the aisle, making sure to bang every seat he passed.

“I thought you’d grow out of your angry phase,” Victor said cheerily, sunglasses already in place on his face. “Looks like it’s here to stay.” Yuri just sneered.

Barcelona was bright and colorful. It left flashing imprints on Yuri’s vision when he closed his eyes and wished for the dreary rain of St. Petersburg in March. But, though the colors were only slightly similar, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the intricate and radiant motifs of Otabek’s mosque as they left the airport.

The memory enabled him to be steered through the airport and into a cab relatively peacefully. Before the couple could start squawking to him about his competition piece and the other musicians, he jammed earbuds into his ears, watching vivid colors whirl by to the tune of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2. 

_Landed in Barcelona. Miss you._


	18. Not Just Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright let me just say i am TRAUMATIZED after welcome to the madness holy shit. also i wildly overestimated my chapter outline so there's gonna be 2 more (lol it used to be 16 now its 20 I was so naive and young)

Getting to the hotel was a blur. The entire evening was a blur. Once Yuri got to his room (though he had booked only one room for him and Otabek, there were two beds) he collapsed on the puffy white comforters and tried to fall asleep. His entire body and mind were aching, so he was just tired enough to refuse all of Victor and Yuuri’s attempts to coax him out for dinner. But he wasn’t tired enough to actually sleep, so he simply drifted in and out of consciousness until the next morning dawned.

Barcelona was _hot_. Hotter than St. Petersburg, anyway. Sunlight streamed like daggers through the thin, transparent curtains, making Yuri curse vehemently into his pillows. He wasn’t sure what time it was in St. Petersburg, but something about the blistering sunlight made him feel strangely sleepy. 

By the time he rolled out of bed, Yuri was convinced he had reverse seasonal depression. An exhausted fog was still settled firmly on his mind, blocking all but the pressing desire for actual sleep, but it didn’t take long for the previous day’s events to slowly trickle back into his consciousness. Like a bolt of lightning had suddenly struck him, his hand shot out for his phone on the nightstand, knocking his knuckle painfully against the wooden panel.

With one eye open, he clicked on his phone, rubbing his hand gingerly. No texts from Otabek. He was probably too distracted, Yuri feebly thought to himself. He wondered whether his mom was okay. Whether they were fighting or making up or crying. Honestly, Yuri only knew the barest of details about how Otabek actually felt about her.

With that glum topic stuck like sludge in his mind, he forced himself out of bed and got dressed quickly. He was determined to find a cafe with a piano somewhere in this barren desert city.

 

 

After wandering a couple blocks away from the towering hotel, he finally found a cafe with a piano tucked away in the corner. The cafe itself was tucked in a corner, really. The name displayed above the grimy window, something in Spanish that Yuri couldn’t read and didn’t care enough to find out, was faded and obscured by shadows, and there were only two customers inside the somehow drafty cafe. Thick curtains concealed all but a crack of the only window in the room. The barista didn’t even greet him as he walked in, though her eyes did follow his path directly from the door to the piano. Despite the peculiar oddities of it, Yuri decided he liked it enough. He was especially thankful for the downright cold breeze settled mysteriously in the cafe.

Yuri hadn’t wanted to print out sheet music for something new or complicated, so he pulled a song from memory. Not a memory that had been made recently; it was one that had stuck in the back of his mind for years.

It occurred to Yuri, for the first time, as he placed his long fingers on the yellowing keys, that nearly any song he had learned was interwoven with some kind of story. Even a story as simple as a rare warm day in Moscow with his grandfather.

Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3 started in his hands, not in his mind. It was purely muscle memory. The song was a lonely and haunting one, not at all something that should remind him of a summer afternoon. And yet it did. It didn’t simply remind him; it assembled the recollection around him. Each facet of the dreary cafe was replaced with the inside of his grandfather’s modest living room, soft sunlight flickering on the floor through the moth-eaten white curtains. Though Yuri could play the song flawlessly at this point in his career, he let himself make the simple mistakes he would have made during the summer of his ninth year. For once, he wasn’t performing. He wasn’t even practicing. Yuri was letting himself play, in the truer sense of the word. 

And thus, in a cold cafe surrounded in sweltering heat, Yuri’s past memory detached itself from Liebestraum and a new one was made. The world around Yuri had complicated itself endlessly, but the tune remained the same. He wondered idly what the song would remind him of in the years to come.

 

 

Finally, halfway through a miserable dinner with Victor and Yuuri, Yuri’s phone dinged. He dove for his jacket, hanging on the back of his chair, and energetically clicked it open. Victor tutted like some sort of derisive chicken and Yuuri giggled into his soup.

“What are you laughing at, Katsudon?” Yuri snapped, eyes scanning the screen. Thankfully it wasn’t just something from Mila or Yakov; Otabek had sent _Leaving the Almaty airport_. Along with a picture of him holding a disposable airport cup that Yuri assumed held tea. The Russian almost couldn’t suppress his smile. Yuuri’s stupid laughing helped to keep his frown permanently on his face.

Then a barrage of texts hit his phone. _I wouldn’t say it went well. But it could have been worse._

_She’s alive. Not doing well though._

_I’ll probably get in at around 2 a.m._

_How’s Barcelona?_

He quickly snuck a picture of the couple feeding each other noodles and sent it. Then, because Yuri knew that words would fail him, he sent a selfie with a thumbs up.

After a couple moments of staring at his screen, debating with himself, he quickly tapped out a message. _I could never do what you’re doing. Hope your good._ He hoped that didn’t sound too distant, but he knew his attempts at the typical form of consolation wouldn’t sound genuine from him. 

Small bits of memory flashed through his mind of the months after the trauma of his grandfather’s death. He would never have been able to compete the day after. He couldn’t even talk to people, much less perform. Granted, Yuri struggled with talking to people already, but he had been completely despondent. 

Otabek just sent a thumbs up emoji in response. Yuri abandoned his efforts to dissect that after a couple minutes and just clicked his phone off, turning back to his noodles.

 

 

 

Yuri had all intentions of staying up until his boyfriend walked through the door, sitting underneath the (now blessedly sunless) window with his knees drawn up, scrolling anxiously through his social media through the night until Otabek arrived. But he didn’t even last until eleven, when he gradually slid closer to the ground, finally curling into a ball on the fluffy hotel carpet. Not quite asleep, but plainly not awake.

Though the Russian had been preoccupied with fretting and agonizing over Otabek’s own troubles through the day, the familiar blend of panic and anticipation over the competition of his dreams rose to the surface of Yuri’s subconscious. On nights like this, if he was restless before any sort of performance, he would normally drag himself over to his piano and hammer out fiery transpositions of every song he hated until he was exhausted to his bones. But the passion he exerted in each performance now seemed borrowed to him, though everyone else in the world believed it to be authentic. In reality, Yuri had been searching for something to quell the need for his own authenticity.

Now that he had undergone some transposition of his own, he understood how false he had been. Now that he had felt some sort of poetry of his own, he understood that passion wasn’t always fiery. Sometimes, it was simple melodies pulled from a violin, the quiet immediately after, and the faintest of touches. For him, that was real. 

Yuri Plisetsky rarely dreamed. Or rather, he rarely remembered his dreams. But today seemed to be a day for subtle memories that seemingly rose from nowhere. This dream rose from something deeper than a sleep-deprived brain in REM, he was certain.

It was, like all things in his life so far, a mixture. Past, present, and some sort of future were wrapped together like a cheesy sci-fi movie. He was playing piano in his grandfather’s living room, but all he could hear was violin. Instead of soft sunlight streaming through threadbare curtains, rain pattering against the tin roof. Raindrops were sliding down Yuri’s face, but his hands remained dry and his vision clear. He suddenly had the realization that they weren’t raindrops, but stars. Pinpricks of lights were bleeding through the roof and plummeting to the floor, trickling pleasantly down his cheeks and hair and resting on his hands splayed on the keys. Uncharacteristically, Yuri giggled over the sound of the violin. 

Though he couldn’t see him, he could hear him. He would know that song anywhere. The notes shot like cartoon arrows through his heart and somehow wrote the words _musical soulmates_ in the intangible equivalent of calligraphy on his skin, in his mind, even his heart.

Though Yuri had come a long way from the bitter child who scorned love and happiness, he still wasn’t quite _there_ yet. Like a morning alarm, his mind scoffed at the trite sentiment and his eyes fluttered open. Stars littered the sky above him through the rectangular window, and the gentle music still surrounded him. The dream faded back against reality, and Yuri was seized with the urge to save it somehow, despite the undeniably strange nature of it.

He turned on his side, still curled in a tight ball. Otabek was leaned against the nearest bed, eyes shut tight and violin held loosely in his hand while his bow barely brushed the strings. The distinct sounds of Otabek’s song (or, as the Kazakh called it, Yuri’s song) filled the air, completing the soundtrack of Yuri’s bizarrely beautiful dream.

This is how he knew he was in love. The unearthly stars tangling in his hair, the perfection of his playing, the memory of his grandfather’s home, all was nothing to what was happening now. When had real life become preferable to perfect, alien dreams? Yuri blinked in slow motion, letting the revelation wash over him in saltwater waves.

Sometime in the next couple repetitions of the song, Otabek realized Yuri was awake. His head was propped up with one hand, sleepily watching Otabek play. The song died into quiet, and Otabek let a small smile grace his lips.

“Why aren’t we performing _that_ song?” Yuri demanded, but it was a soft, love-seeped demand. There was no bite to it, and Otabek knew it. “Oh, yeah. A shitty piano piece would screw it up.”

“No,” Otabek corrected, still leaning with his hip pressed against the unreasonably tall bed. “Because it’s meant for you to hear, not play. My gift to you.”

Yuri pushed himself upright, still wearing an admittedly saccharine grin. “So that was your plan? Serenade me until I fall in love?” Almost tripping over the heavy words, watching Otabek’s eyes widen, he plowed on with manufactured confidence. “Well, it doesn’t count if I’m half asleep.” He crawled over to the other man, tugging at his jeans until Otabek sank down on the floor to meet him.

Otabek’s dark eyes moved restlessly over his face, reading what Yuri was letting him see. “We always find ourselves on the floor,” he murmured, reaching up to push a lock of blonde hair behind Yuri’s ear. Yuri rolled his eyes at the cliche movement.

“You know that’s what’s happening, right?” Yuri asked nervously, daring himself to say the words. “Like, for real. And I’m not a goddamn sap, so...” he trailed off.

Otabek nodded. His hands dropped from the angles of Yuri’s face to his waist, and he pulled the smaller man against his chest, carefully gathering Yuri’s limbs in his tired arms. They collapsed gracelessly into the pillows, keeping contact, like before, through clasped hands. “Tomorrow,” Otabek whispered into tangled blonde hair, “I have so much to tell you.” His words were slow and deliberate, weighed down with exhaustion. “But right now...”

“I get it,” Yuri replied, eyelids impossibly heavy. “Go to sleep, Altin.” And with those words hanging in the air, he found himself drifting off as well. 

He had come the closest he could to a confession, and the weight of it seemed physically lifted from him. _Tomorrow,_ Yuri repeated to himself, half delirious. A inexpressible wish formed in his overwrought mind as he sank into a dreamless sleep. Something along the lines of _not just tomorrow_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> liszt's liebestraum: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4XEPdYO5mM  
> again, otabek is playing Agape for yuri.


	19. Palau de la Música Catalana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst in the morning, but it gets better i promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (remind me to never do a chapter outline again). (this chapter was originally going to be the full competition day, but it was getting way too long).

Yuri had forgotten to close the damn curtains again, so he woke up with sunlight glaring, hot and unpleasant, directly into his face. He blinked rapidly, attempting to swat it away with his hands. His second impulse was to bury his face underneath the pillows with a dramatic moan. His third impulse was to push the pillows away and shoot up straight, hair standing up comically in frizzy strands, and narrow his eyes suspiciously at the unfortunately empty space beside him.

“Otabek!” Yuri proclaimed into the empty room. The bathroom door swung open, revealing a confused Otabek, dressed in loose shorts and a faded t-shirt, with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Brushing my teeth,” he replied, cocking an eyebrow. Yuri glared.

“Come back to bed. I want to hear about your trip.” Yuri patted the space beside him.

Otabek held up a finger and disappeared back into the bathroom for a couple moments, reappearing sans toothbrush. He did a sort of prancing hop over Yuri’s overflowing suitcase, gingerly avoiding the clothes covering the floor. “You know we’re only here for, what, three days? And you’re already back to--”

“Shut up,” Yuri growled, causing Otabek to roll his eyes. He pulled the covers back and slid his legs in, yanking the blankets back up to his chin. It was only then, as his boyfriend curled around a pillow and stared off into space, that Yuri saw a hint of the cavernous exhaustion in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if ‘exhaustion’ was the right word, but it was the closest thing he could think of.

Yuri struggled between reaching out and saying something, or simply leaving him be. Helplessly, he considered texting Yuuri for advice before he realized the true extent of their relationship wasn’t public information in any way. He’d rather not put up with a deluge of questions about why Otabek was in his bed at seven in the morning.

So, because Yuri was selfish, he opted for the one he was more comfortable with. “Beka,” he started, the nickname rolling off his tongue pleasantly. Otabek’s gaze focused on him. “Are you sure you wanna perform tonight?” Then, a beat later, “Are you okay?”

He hated the sadness and the frustration in Otabek’s eyes. He hated it so much.

“Yes,” Otabek replied emphatically. “I want to perform with you. I mean, the idea of it scares me to death--” Yuri snorted, “--but I think we have a decent chance at this. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Yuri was tempted to snatch the words and not pry any further, content with accepting them. The title of Eurasia United swung in the forefront of his mind tantalizingly. But he wanted to be certain. “I’m nineteen, Beka. It’s not like I’m going to stop playing music any time soon. We can always--”

“No,” Otabek interrupted, something like anger in his eyes. “That’s not what I want at all. I don’t know how many opportunities like this could come around, especially for someone like me. You know what I mean,” he chided in response to Yuri’s dubious look. “I’m not famous. I don’t have any money. Next year I’ll be living with my brother--” He stopped suddenly.

Yuri inhaled sharply. He had been expecting this, but it still stuttered his heart. “In Almaty?”

Otabek nodded, reaching a hand out to rest on Yuri’s collarbones. “She’s letting me take him. He was all alone when I got there, just sitting in the hospital wait room with this awful expression-- fifteen-year-old boys shouldn’t look like that, Yura,” he implored miserably. Yuri closed his eyes, his entire body numb. Feeling so terribly selfish. “He’s living with our aunt until this summer. She’s not the most gracious guardian,” Otabek added bitterly. “But she isn’t an alcoholic, and she has food. So that’s something.”

An awful silence fell. “But you’re going to finish your degree, right?” Yuri eventually choked out.

“Of course. I’m finishing the year in St. Petersburg, too. I promise I’m not just going to leave you--”

“Otabek, stop acting like you need my permission. I understand, okay? I’ll text you a shit ton, and we can Skype, and everything’s going to be fine.” He tripped over each word, trying to convince them both that it wasn’t the end of the world. “We’ve got, like, at least two more months.”

Otabek closed his eyes briefly, a distorted kind of relief crossing his features. He shifted closer to Yuri, pressing his face to the crook of the smaller man’s neck. “Thank God for Yuri Plisetsky,” he mumbled.

Yuri’s laugh caught them both by surprise. “Uh. Thanks. I like you a lot too.” 

After a moment, in which Yuri was busy contemplating literally everything, Otabek said, “So, want to play Moonlight Sonata? For old time’s sake.” He glanced up at Yuri with a small but genuine smile.

Yuri rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help but smile in response. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“You like it.”

“I _put up_ with it.”

“That’s not what it seemed like when you asked for my number after--”

“Oh, shut up, Altin. We’ll go play your sappy song. But it’s gonna take us years to find a piano in this goddamn city.”

 

 

They hadn’t even made it out the door when a very sleepy Yuuri with mussed hair and crooked glasses and a very cheerful Victor (not a hair out of place) intercepted them. 

“Big day today! I’ve got a schedule here, by the way, Yuri, Yakov wants to talk to you, oh and Otabek you’ll need to be shown around. I recommend we scope out the competition, even the ones you don’t think are very good, Yuri, because it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve underestimated someone in a--” Words tumbled in rapid Russian out of Victor’s stupid heart mouth. Yuuri tugged anxiously at his sleeve, placing a finger over his lips.

“Shh, Victor, I have a massive headache,” Yuuri mumbled, his accent heavier than usual. Yuri rolled his eyes, slipping a hand covertly into Otabek’s.

Victor’s eyes bulged. Before he could say anything, Yuri snatched the schedule out of his hand and perused it. “Thanks. I think I can show Otabek around myself. Otabek, come on--” And with that, he towed a sheepish Otabek away from a gaping Victor and a barely conscious Yuuri.

“I really wanted to play the Moonlight Sonata,” Yuri grumbled once they were safe in the elevator. Otabek turned towards him indignantly, eyebrows raised.

“I thought you said--” He stopped abruptly after Yuri shot him a death glare, simply rolling his eyes. Yuri squeezed his hand before tugging him through the elevator doors at a near sprint. 

“To the concert hall!”

 

 

They bought bagels and coffee from a breakfast shop across the street, Otabek using Google Translate on his phone to stutter out requests in Spanish. As soon as they were off the street and in a cab, Yuri’s phone started ringing. First it was Victor, then Yakov, then Yuuri, then Yakov again. Otabek kept shooting confused glances at a stubbornly silent Yuri, purposefully ignoring the incessant ringing.

“Are you gonna pick that up?” He asked finally as Victor called again. 

Yuri grimaced but dug his phone out of his pocket. “We’re on our way to the concert hall, if that’s what you’re going on about,” the Russian snapped into his phone.

“Yuri, I _told_ you Yakov wanted to talk to you about last-minute stuff. Don’t get mad at _me_.” Victor sounded slightly offended. “But I’ll tell him you’ll meet him at the concert hall.”

Yuri punched the end call button, pursing his lips in frustration.

“What?” Otabek asked curiously, catching sight of his miffed expression.

Yuri hesitated before answering. “I just wanted to show you around, like, alone. And maybe find a piano,” he confessed. “I might be just a tiny bit nervous.”

Otabek smirked slightly, in a self-righteous way, before reaching over to squeeze Yuri’s fingers. “I don’t know if this makes it better or worse, but you’ve performed plenty of times. You’ll be fine.”

Yuri furrowed his brow in confusion. “Why would that make my nerves worse?”

“Because people already expect a lot from you.”

The Russian groaned. “Oh God, you’re right. Why did you have to say that?”

“I mean, you asked,” Otabek replied contritely. 

Thankfully, just then the taxi pulled up smoothly to the entrance of the concert hall. Yuri tossed some bills over the seat, muttering “ _Gracias_ ” in a purposefully thick Russian accent, and conjured sunglasses from his jeans pocket. They emerged from the taxi into the glaring Barcelona sun, Otabek looking curiously up at the grand concert hall. Yuri could see his throat bob as he swallowed nervously.

The enormous arches, decorated with distinctive patterns, marked the entrance underneath ornate stone carvings. The building would look almost like a cathedral, with its delicate finishings and stately arches and spires, if it weren’t for the flamboyant red-and-blue colorings of the stone. Yuri had been to each Eurasia United since he’d been under Yakov’s wing, but it had never been in Barcelona yet. He’d only been to this concert hall once before, for his own performance. He’d been fifteen at the time and had played Rachmaninoff’s concertos. He was paid luxuriously for it, and had sent it all back to his grandfather, only to inherit it all back when he’d died. Yuri was still bitter about it.

“This is Palau de la Música Catalana,” Yuri proclaimed theatrically once they’d reached the arches, sweeping an arm back. Otabek gave an appreciative smile, though it seemed slightly constructed. Yuri knew enough at this point that Otabek’s happiness, when genuine, didn’t express itself through the usual mannerisms of smiles and relaxed muscles. Body language got him nowhere with trying to understand his oddly stoic and perpetually tense nature.

“Pablo Casals performed here,” Otabek commented offhandedly. Yuri’s eyebrows flew up at the mention of something Otabek knew that he didn’t.

The name rang a very, very small bell in the back of Yuri’s mind. “Why, yes, he did,” he responded uncertainly, eyebrows knit together. 

Otabek laughed. “He was a cellist. The best of the century, Yura.”

“It’s pretty,” he added after a while, eyes cast upwards to the magnificently sun-stained building.

Yuri snorted. “I guess you could say that. Come on, we have shit to do.” He slipped his hand into Otabek’s and yanked him into the concert hall.

Once they were inside, the preparations for Eurasia United were obvious. The posters for the competition pushed every other tiny flyer to the edges of the announcement board, proclaiming the top twenty-five competitors in bold letters and their accompanists beside their names. Yuri scanned the list, in no particular order, and flushed with deep-rooted pride when he located his name. YURI PLISETSKY, CON* OTABEK ALTIN, it read. 

The Kazakh appeared behind him, reaching a finger out to press on their names. “That’s us,” he murmured wondrously.

“Yeah,” Yuri breathed. He couldn’t contain his grin when he glanced up at Otabek’s almost astonished expression. “Fucking finally.”

“Yuri Plisetsky!” a confident voice declared, not even trying to pronounce it correctly. It was the same sort of proud accent that Yuri utilized whenever he was forced to speak Spanish, though distinctly an English accent, not Russian.

Yuri closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He’d know that voice anywhere. “ _You_ ,” he spit out in response, spinning around like he was in a 1950’s mafia movie, resisting the urge to ball his hands into fists.

“Finally made it to Eurasia United, I see. I haven’t seen you perform since Russian Nationals,” JJ said smugly, arm wrapped around his stupid simpering accompanist. Yuri tried not to see the weird parallels.

“Wow, I bet you’ve been thinking of what to say to me since the last time we saw each other,” Yuri replied derisively.

JJ just kept smiling his sickening, blinding smile. 

“If you don’t go away I’m calling the cops,” Yuri continued, still glaring. JJ just shook his head and walked away. “What, are you gonna need another year to figure out some shitty comeback?!” Yuri shouted after them, taking a step after them. Otabek grabbed the back of his jacket, hauling him backwards.

“Calm down, Yuri, you just asked him to leave,” Otabek said, both exasperated and amused.

“It’s not funny! He’s my nemesis!”

“You have a _nemesis_? How old are you? Nevermind, I forgot who I was talking to,” Otabek quipped, rolling his eyes. Yuri punched him, hard, in the arm. “Who even is he?”

“That’s _Jean-Jacques Leroy_ ,” Yuri responded, accented each syllable mockingly. “We competed literally once together, in a tiny competition that literally didn’t matter at all. And he beat me--” Otabek snorted, earning another punch, “But I was only fourteen! It was my first international competition! Anyway, he beat me. I saw him at the afterparty for Russian Nationals last fall, for God knows why, and he said I _was almost as good as Victor_. With that stupid smile! So I kneed him in the gut,” Yuri added proudly.

Otabek squinted at Yuri. “That sounds like a compliment,” he pointed out.

“It wasn’t,” Yuri replied darkly, glaring in the general direction of where JJ and his fiancee had walked away. “Anyway, come with me. There’s a practice piano in the basement of the concert hall.

 

 

It wasn’t really a piano, more of a dusty keyboard. The basement was cool and drafty, and it was the only room in the concert hall with artificial lighting. Yuri wouldn’t even know this room existed without Victor; he’d seen the man disappear down a mysterious flight of stairs after watching Yuri’s Rachmaninoff concert and he’d followed him, like the intrusive punk he was. Victor had only needed to make a phonecall, but the room stuck in the back of Yuri’s mind.

Yuri had kept his hands over Otabek’s eyes while walking him past the main auditorium; he didn’t want him to see it until performance time. Only because it was famously stunning, and completely overwhelming, and he didn’t want the Kazakh man to freak out. 

Otabek unclasped his violin case, resting it carefully on the cement floor. “Moonlight Sonata?” He reaffirmed, glancing at Yuri with an indescribable tenderness in his eyes. It made Yuri’s face feel like it was melting a little bit.

“Yeah. Just, wait a second,” Yuri said, sitting backwards on the piano bench. He leaned against the keys gingerly, waiting for the cacophonous crash to fade. Otabek looked back at with a puzzled expression. “We’ve just come kind of a long way, and I’m trying to remember this,” Yuri further explained, eyes flicking from Otabek’s face to his violin. The other man’s expression cleared with understanding.

“I’m not good at fancy declarations,” he continued, pushing blonde hair out of his eyes in frustration. “And you pretty much already know how I feel about you.” Otabek nodded. The slight trickle of cold sweat down Yuri’s spine made him realize that he was actually nervous for this. “But, um, I’m really glad you heard me playing Moonlight Sonata in Katya’s two months ago. And I’m really glad that made you want to play it too, because I’m kind of arrogant and I wouldn’t have thought you were good unless I heard you play.” At that, Otabek rolled his eyes. Yuri forged on. “So, uh, thanks.”

“Eloquent as always, Plisetsky,” Otabek responded, but his eyes were warm in the dim light.

“Shut up, Altin. There’s a reason why I play music and don’t write speeches for a living.”

“I don’t think that’s a real thing.”

Yuri glared before spinning around in the piano seat and laying his hands on the chipped keys. “Come stand over here,” Yuri said over his shoulder, pointing beside him. 

Otabek obliged, already swinging his violin up to rest by his throat. Yuri not-so-subtly stared.

Then, without even making a conscious decision to do so, Yuri began to play. The song was an extension of his hands at this point, even more muscle memory than Liebestraum. Though they’d played it frequently the past two months, it still gave the pianist a sense of nostalgia for the snowy cafe day. He had been so lonely, and the Moonlight Sonata expressed it perfectly. Or so he’d thought, until Otabek had turned it on its head with his violin and revived it from bitter loneliness to a graceful ardor. From him, it was fluid in a way it could never be on the piano, and Yuri was perfectly content with that. Preferred it, even, because although he’d once thought of Otabek as nothing but a breathtaking violinist, he now knew that Otabek was a breathtaking _person_. Yuri almost rolled his eyes at the sentiment. But it was true that for those first confusing weeks, Otabek’s playing was an excuse for Yuri to stay as close as possible to him. 

One day, if Yuri could ever think clearly about all this, he might even look back to that day at Katya’s Cafe and realize the absurd chance of it all. It could have been any cafe, any song, any violinist, any _country_. But it was the perfect song, and the perfect place, for Yuri to begin to lose the wariness he didn’t even know he had. 

And as the song drew to an elegant end in wonderful familiarity, Yuri allowed himself to thank his lucky stars for Otabek Altin. 

After drawing the last note to a close, Otabek rested his elbows on the top of the piano and gazed down at Yuri with revolting sappiness. “What next?”

Yuri stretched his arms above his head languorously, casting around in his mind for the next thing to distract Otabek from the fast-approaching performance. “Let’s go get ice cream. It’s too damn hot in Barcelona.”

Otabek snickered mockingly, snapping his violin back up in its case. “You should see Almaty.”

Yuri gave him a sideways glance. “You’re right. I _should_ see Almaty.” He hadn’t even known the thought was there until the words were out of his mouth. The Kazakh simply raised his eyebrows, wordlessly catching Yuri’s hand. Their fingers clasped loosely together until the top of the stairs, when they both shoved their hands into their pockets in an unspoken decision. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Palau de la Música Catalana is a real place! and it's gorgeous, go look at pictures. *Also edit: "con" means "with" in Spanish. so the poster reads "Yuri Plisetsky with Otabek Altin." ALSO I made JJ and Isabella English (lol) bc canada is not in europe or asia, and I wanted them to still compete. It's weird, ik, but im trying to work with it


	20. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No proofreading, we publish like men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp. here it is.

The next few hours before the competition passed in a hazy, sun-filled blur. They picked up their fancy suits from their rooms (Yuri had bought both of theirs, informing Otabek that “he could pay him back when they were _both_ rolling in dough”). A slight tumble of tension twisted in Yuri’s stomach, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. Honestly, he thought he would be _more_ nervous, as this competition had been his goal since he was eleven. The suspicious lack of nerves made him nervous in itself.

Otabek, on the other hand, was doing a terrible job at masking his anxiety in front of Yuri, though he was clearly trying desperately. When they had stepped out of the musty basement, they had been surrounding by musicians, critics, event-organizers, and even ridiculously early audience members in the fast-filling lobby. Otabek’s eyes had taken on a slightly frantic expression, which only grew as the hours flew away and the beginning of the competition approached. 

When it was five-thirty, half an hour before the first performers were slotted to go, Yuri elected that they find their way back to the concert hall that they’d escaped from after Moonlight Sonata. Otabek nodded soundlessly, brushing a hand past his undercut. Yuri steered them back to the Palau from the streets of Barcelona, both clad in simple, yet incredibly expensive tuxedos. Almost like a wedding, Yuri couldn’t help thinking, as they ran hand-in-hand to the concert hall, Yuri laughing like a child and Otabek grinning as carefree as he could ever be just hours before a performance.

Yakov intercepted them both in the lobby, gripping Yuri’s bony shoulder painfully with his own bony hand. He dismissed Otabek rather brusquely, simply procuring a _hand-written letter_ from Lilia detailing final instructions and her notes from the last practice they’d had. Yuri stared, slack-jawed, as Otabek read the letter, earning a yank on his hair from Yakov. “Yuri, are you paying attention? This is getting quite long, by the way. You’re beginning to look like--”

“Yes, Yakov, I’m growing it out. Do you like it?” Yuri asked sarcastically, patting his silky blonde locks. He’d taken extra care to brush his hair that morning. 

Yakov fixed him with a steely look. “Focus.”

“You’re the one who brought it up!”

The older man threw his head back towards the ornate ceiling with a hopeless look. “Yuratchka. I mean to talk to you about the competition. The other competitors--” Yuri bit back a typical retaliation defending his own prowess and the inherent flaws of the others, deciding against it. For once he’d attempt to listen to what Yakov wanted to say. He only realized, about three minutes into mentally basking in his newfound maturity and humility, that he hadn’t actually caught anything Yakov was saying. “--there isn’t much you can do at this point, but I’ve been discussing it with the Thai boy’s instructor and they’ve really put everything they can into this year’s composition. Also, those two have been playing together years longer than you and your violinist, and this is their third Eurasia United. Though I can’t say that Seung-gil Lee is my _favorite_ in terms of interpretation--”

Yakov cut himself off, growing suspiciously misty-eyed. “Yuratchka, I’m very proud of how far you’ve come this year,” he said gruffly after a moment. Yuri’s eyes widened. Even Otabek glanced up from his letter, catching the words. “Especially taking into consideration all that transpired last fall, with your grandfather. I know you didn’t really intend to go off on your own--”

“Alright, old man, that’s enough,” Yuri spit out, but Yakov only squeezed his shoulder once more. Before the moment could slip, Yuri cleared his throat and said, “Thank you.”

Yakov nodded curtly, giving Yuri’s hair another affectionate yank. “I’ll be with Yuuri and Victor. If you’ll want to join us. Well, I suppose you should get ready backstage.” Then he strode off towards the seats. Yuri shared an incredulous look with Otabek.

“Jeez. Never heard anything like that before,” Yuri muttered, shaking his head. “Sentimental old man.” Otabek’s lip quivered, and he bit down on it. “What?” He shook his head, mimicking Yuri. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” he protested. “I just think he really cares about you, that’s all. Despite your annoying--” Yuri shoved him, and Otabek started chuckling, a kind of laugh that bubbled up in your chest until it spilled out. Yuri found it exceedingly adorable. 

“Whatever,” Yuri quipped, trying to be flippant and failing. “Come on, let’s go backstage and mess around with the other musicians. Try to throw them off their game.”

Otabek rolled his eyes as Yuri snatched his sleeve, tugging him into a corridor that ran alongside the audience. “I don’t think you could throw anyone anywhere, with your size, but I’d enjoy seeing you try.” Yuri decided to ignore that and kept towing him in the general direction of backstage. It was more sidestage, really. Otabek kept sneaking looks around the broad banisters, gazing open-mouthed at the remarkable geometric patterns on the ceilings and walls.

“This is incredible,” Otabek managed, fingers folding neatly between Yuri’s. Yuri’s pace stuttered, but he got his stride back after a moment and continued walking rapidly through the corridor. 

“Yeah, it’s called ‘modernism’ or something. This place is famous for it,” the Russian responded, sparing a cursory glance for the radiant designs and colors. A low buzz from the audience radiated through the concert hall, reminding Yuri of all the concert halls he’d performed at. The familiar murmur of the masses always started soft, then crescendoed spectacularly right before the curtain was raised and perfect silence fell. To Yuri, it seemed to reflect the anatomy and structure of his own compositions perfectly. Beginning softly, ending furiously, and the silence settling once again.

“Here it is,” Yuri said quietly, using both arms to heave the double doors open. The lighting inside the long, narrow room was dim, casting more shadow than light upon the scattered chairs and people. Most stood in pairs, obviously sticking with their accompanists, but some grouped together, chatting cordially. Yuri had never seen the room so packed with people before. He recognized some, but didn’t wish to speak with any.

He turned back to Otabek, determined to shun the others despite his earlier words of “throwing them off their game”, but a hand was already tugging on his elbow.

“Yuri!” A voice exclaimed, pronouncing his name _exactly_ like Japanese Yuuri’s. “Introduce me to your accompanist! Yuuri’s told me so much, I want to meet him!”

Phichit Chulanont grinned a cheery smile, eyes squinted nearly shut with his enthusiasm. His phone was clutched in his hand, and Yuri eyed it with the apprehension of someone that had come across a grenade. He knew what that phone was capable of. 

“Hello, Phichit,” Yuri responded begrudgingly. He owed it to Yuuri to socialize with his best friend. “This is Otabek Altin, of Kazakhstan. He’s great.”

Otabek spared Yuri a soft smile, almost as if he was flattered, before shaking Phichit’s outstretched hand. Yuri resisted the temptation to roll his eyes; Otabek _knew_ he thought he was great. 

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Let’s take a picture!” The Russian audibly groaned, earning a kick to the ankle from Otabek, but posed for Phichit’s picture appropriately. The Thai man reached out an arm and ensnared a stony-faced, dark-haired boy, pulling him tightly to his side. Yuri recognized him as Seung-gil Lee. “Gillee, get in a picture!”

Yuri snorted at the nickname and managed to pass it off as a cough. The picture was awkward, all of them except Phichit frowning stagnantly in various degrees of disinterest, but Yuri still asked him to DM it to him on Instagram. 

He checked the time on his phone. Five minutes until the first two were up. Then another hour-and-a-half wait until it was their turn to play. Otabek and Yuri were among the last to perform; Yuri wasn’t sure how the order was created, but he had noticed that the most talented musicians were ordered near the end.

Like he had predicted, the buzz from the audience had subtly risen to a cacophony, just minutes before the curtain rose. The first to perform, two women from China that looked to be in their mid-thirties, rose from spindly chairs pushed against the wall, one of them holding a violin case. As she took it out of the black case, Yuri eyed it curiously, noticing it was significantly smaller than Otabek’s. Of course, Yuri thought to himself. He’d grown up around musicians of all kinds; he should know that violin sizes vary. But he’d gotten used to the look and size of Otabek’s.

“Otabek,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. They were leaning with their backs against a wall, both of them surveying the others. The other musicians, already hushed, had grown almost completely quiet.

The other man hummed in response.

“Is your violin too small?”

He paused a moment. “I don’t really know. It doesn’t bother me.” At Yuri’s probing look, he continued. “I mean, I haven’t grown very much since I was fifteen.”

The Chinese pianist walked out a smaller door, followed by her accompanist, and silence fell over the concert hall. Yuri waited, muscles taut and mind blank, for the music to begin.

 

 

An hour later, and Yuri’s hands had loosened considerably, tapping out the rhythms of the various compositions. Each song was capped at five minutes, and the competition was strictly classical, but most musicians took some artistic license with that particular rule, brushing the limits of what defined “classical.” Yuri had never played with the boundaries, but he’d always been curious of musicians who chose to incorporate themes that were typically swing or jazz, or even wholly new themes.

Even though each song was captivating in their own unique ways, it didn’t take Yuri very long to come to the conclusion that he and his accompanist were better than the others. This was usually the conclusion he came to before his turn during a competition, if only to spike his confidence, but this time he had wasn’t performing alone. It was different, because now he needed to have confidence in them both. Which he did.

An hour later, and Otabek’s hands were gripping the expensive material of his pants in sweaty fists, breathing _very noisily_. “Shh,” Yuri hissed, but his eyes betrayed his concern. They were both sitting in chairs pushed against the back wall, Yuri hugging his knees and Otabek hunched over.

“It’s your fault,” Otabek whispered back miserably. “I wouldn’t think this competition was so important if you hadn’t talked about it nonstop for the past month.”

“You _should_ think it’s important. But why does _that_ make you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Yeah fucking right, Altin.”

“It’s just. This is important.”

“Mhm.”

“And I don’t want to mess it up.” Yuri waited pointedly for him to elaborate, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve messed up before. Not with the violin, but.” He ground the heels of his hands into his knees in frustration, finally looking at Yuri. Eyebrows knit, mouth pressed in a hard line. “I’ve let people down before.”

“Beka,” Yuri stuttered out after a shocked moment. “Just because I’ve won stuff and have a fancy teacher dude and two fancy ex-winners that follow me around like dads doesn’t mean I’m _better than you_.” He floundered for words. “I’ve let people down too, you know. With the piano, even. God, I must like you a lot to be saying this,” he burst out. A white-blond, weedy-looking pianist shot him a deadly look, pressing a thin finger to his lips. Yuri shot him a venomous glare in return, but lowered his voice. “Under no circumstances would I admit this. Except these circumstances, apparently. But I’m not perfect, Otabek. So stop pretending you’re the shitty musician in this relationship.” Otabek’s lips were parted slightly, face muscles relaxed into his version of a surprised expression. “Because neither of us are shitty musicians. And we’re gonna win this.”

The Kazakh ran his tongue over his teeth in a nervous gesture, before smiling slightly. “Damn. Maybe you _should_ write speeches for a living.” 

Yuri was suddenly lilting forward before he could even give the idea a once-over in his mind, brushing his lips gently across the other man’s nose. Immediately after he’d done it, he wondered why he’d picked that specific place.

He didn’t have much time to wonder before Otabek’s hand flew up to his neck and tugged him into the softest of kisses. In the background, violin notes swooned and sang through the concert hall. It was nothing like Otabek’s playing, but it certainly set the mood.

They both jerked back after a second, Yuri scanning the room, mostly for JJ, with narrowed eyes. “It’s not like I don’t want people to know you’re mine,” he explained in a whisper. “But I’m kind of private...”

Otabek nodded, now smiling loosely. “I know. Me too.” 

He curled his fingers around a chunk of the Russian’s blonde hair, feeling it slip through his fingers. “Aren’t you going to pull this back?”

Yuri’s eyes flew open. “Oh! I almost forgot. I even have a hair tie,” he said, his own hands replacing Otabek’s. He hastily tied back his hair into a ponytail, for once no locks of hair snaking out. Yuri smiled broadly. “I feel like this is a good omen.”

Otabek rolled his eyes, though his mouth was still curved into a slight smile.“I can’t wait to play our song together.”

Yuri giggled uncharacteristically, feeling almost drunk. “There you go. Fake it till you make it, Altin.”

 

 

 

A scattering of polite applause sounded from the cracked door for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, and Yuri hauled himself up. Otabek followed with the neck of his violin dangling from one hand, violin case discarded near their chairs.

Yuri pushed the door open to the true backstage, only a thick velvet curtain separating him from the stage of his dreams. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and glanced back at Otabek for reassurance instinctually. The other man nodded, raking a hand through the long part of his now-disheveled dark hair. They walked around the emerald green curtains, the applause immediately picking up once the blinding spotlights hit their faces. Yuri could even hear his name being squealed and shouted throughout the audience. 

A grand piano, the shiniest and blackest that Yuri had ever seen, stood center stage. He couldn’t remember willing his body to move, yet he was already pulling back the piano bench in the most familiar of motions. The crowd sank into a hush quicker than it rose out of one, the entire room holding its breath expectantly. Another inhale, another exhale, and Yuri’s hands were now poised carefully over smooth, immaculate keys. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Otabek standing in front of him, bow and violin half risen in his arms. Numbly, Yuri forced himself to suck in another breath, raising his head to lock eyes with him. Curiously similar to the moment before Le Cygne, Otabek’s warm eyes held a thousand words, but Yuri didn’t need to hear any of them to know exactly what he was trying to say.

So he began. And, though his body seemingly had forgotten its basic functions, the first notes of the composition welled up in his hands like rainwater spilling out of an overflowing cup. Music poured out in a flood, a flurry of notes that Yuri had painstakingly drawn out over and over. He struck each key, each chord with pinpoint precision, losing himself to the fiery first measures.

Then, over the dancing movement of Yuri’s music, Otabek subtly began to play. Yuri’s music was all fire, but Otabek’s was pure air, steadily fueling his lightning hands. Just as they’d planned, the delicate notes slowly rose in volume until Otabek matched Yuri for motion and sound.

Yuri knew the song well enough, having written it, to play without his eyes trained downwards. The sweeping sound of the violin overpowered the piano, Yuri relinquishing his control over the song. This was his favorite part: when Otabek’s eyebrows furrowed and his shoulders began to quake with the pure effort of wringing out the most perfect of notes, the entire world falling silent for his unearthly music. 

It was lucky that Yuri’s part was minimal during this section of the song. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the violinist. 

It crescendoed magnificently, and Yuri’s attention was finally drawn back to his own place in the song. Neither was holding back now, and the almost playful notes dipped and then rose again to the height of their fervor. Yuri’s hands flew over the keys, lip caught between his teeth sharply, and Otabek’s bow wavered precisely over each impassioned note.

The last note struck suddenly, catching even Yuri by surprise. The two musicians caught each other’s gaze as the song drew to an end, chests both heaving. Yuri’s body had apparently remembered how to breath, as he gasped for air with his hands now coming down to grip his thighs, arms quaking. But he was grinning, eyes shining with both relief and pride. The crowd burst into raucous applause.

Now that he was certain he’d performed his best, he pitched forward, slamming elbows into the keys and pressing his face into his hands. The audience gasped, then laughed as Yuri waved a reassurance with one arm. After a moment, he stood up.

Yuri’s last concert in St. Petersburg, and Otabek’s first, flashed through the pianist’s mind. He knew exactly what he wanted to do before they took their bow.

He marched over to a breathless Otabek and wrenched his violin and bow out of his hands, resting them carefully on the back of the piano. Then, before Otabek’s puzzled and slightly dubious expression could make him change his mind, he grasped the other man’s fingers and raised them to his lips. He kissed them gently before mumbling “Magic.”

Otabek’s eyes widened in shock. But he recovered quickly, shocked expression melting into one of love, and amusement. “Sorry? Couldn’t hear that.”

Yuri’s eyebrows knit together, the cacophony of the audience seeming to fade away. “What?”

“Say it again.”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “You’re magic, Beka.” He squeezed his fingers gently before releasing them to face the audience. On cue, the already earsplitting applause rose even higher as they bowed slowly. Yuri wanted to savor the moment forever.

But, he realized as they exited the stage, applause at Eurasia United wasn’t any better than playing with Otabek in a dusty basement, or in a cluttered apartment, or even in a cramped and noisy cafe. Music had changed for him. He wasn’t sure how, or what exactly had changed, but nothing was ever going to be the same after this.

 

 

They ducked back into the side room, a couple musicians clapping politely with supportive smiles plastered on their faces. Yuri couldn’t imagine ever doing that for a rival musician, but Otabek returned their smiles and waved casually with his free hand.

The room had thinned out some since the beginning, though some of the musicians chose to stay over seeking out seats in the cramped concert hall. Only four more songs were left. Only twenty more minutes, Yuri thought to himself, scanning the room.

Phichit was gesturing broadly around the room while speaking rapidly to Seung-gil, who was wearing what could only be described as an apathetic expression. Yuri watched them conversing, eyes wandering between the two and finally settling on the Korean’s violin. The instrument was a pale brown, lighter in color than Yuri was used to and less reddish in tone.

After a moment, his gaze drifted over to JJ and Isabella. The man’s arm was thrown casually over her bare shoulders, scarlet dress hugging her body elegantly. Her violin was still encased, resting on the floor by her feet. Isabella’s shoulder-length hair, jet black and sleek, twisted into an elegant bun. Her entire appearance was striking. 

Though JJ was speaking animatedly in her ear, she caught Yuri’s gaze and quirked an eyebrow, lips tugging up at one side.Yuri cocked an eyebrow back in some sort of challenge, before glancing at an oblivious Otabek. _I’m going to win_ , he communicated wordlessly to her. She smiled sweetly before turning her attention back to her fiance.

Finally Yuri looked to the last of the competition. An American pianist, Leo de la Iglesia, and an innocent-looking Chinese violinist, Guang Hong Ji. The smaller boy had a light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, and he seemed to be perpetually blushing. The other one, Leo, was always smiling broadly and had a confident gleam in his eyes. Despite their casual appearances, Yuri had seen their concerts on Youtube and knew they were dangerously talented. 

Like Isabella, Leo caught him staring, though he gave him a cheery wave. “Good job!” he whisper-yelled across the room. Yuri nodded once, considering whether or not he should wish him good luck. They were next, after the two performing now. He decided against it, instead pulling out his phone. 

He effectively distracted himself with social media through the next songs. Occasionally Otabek’s hand would drift to the back of his neck, twining his fingers through Yuri’s ponytail, before settling on his shoulder again. The dips and swells of each composition sang in Yuri’s ears, but he forced himself to ignore it. Listening to the others wouldn’t help the apprehensive ache in his stomach. 

The last competitors, JJ and Isabella, disappeared through the door. As soon as they were gone, Yuri stood up abruptly. “Come on, Otabek, let’s go find Yuuri and Victor,” he said, tugging on the Kazakh’s perfectly pressed white sleeve. Otabek had his suit jacket draped over his violin case.

They left the small sidestage room, and once they were in the corridor adjacent to the audience the English couple’s performance reached them much more clearly. Yuri groaned, clamping his hands firmly over his ears. “Tell me when it’s over,” he hissed at Otabek in his stage whisper. Otabek peered into his face with concern, but didn’t say anything, only nodding in response.

Before Yuri knew it, the other man was tugging at his wrists. “It’s over,” he said, biting his lip. “When do we know...?”

“Thirty minutes. It’s like an intermission, and then they announce the top five.”

Otabek nodded, swallowing perceptively. “Thirty minutes,” he repeated.

 

 

Time sped up erratically after that. Yuuri and Victor found them, crowing lovingly about their performance over the racket of the jabbering crowd. Victor even tried to hug Otabek while he stood there awkwardly with his arms hanging at his side, shooting Yuri panicked glances. Yuri tried, and failed, to smother his laughs with his hand, though his humor died quickly once Victor attacked him with the same enthusiasm.

“My little Yuri! So grown up! So talented!”

“Get _off_ , Victor. I _know_.”

Yuuri murmured praise in his more subdued, yet equally sincere tone. He gave them both supportive smiles before disappearing into the milling crowd to find Phichit.

The clamoring voices of Victor and Yakov melded into background noise for the next half hour, until it was time for the judges to mount the stage and announce the ranks of the best musicians in both Asia and Europe.

Otabek’s firm hand on his elbow guided him into down the aisles of the audience, to their seats with the forty-eight other musicians in the front row. “You okay?” he whispered into Yuri’s ear as they sat down.

The Russian nodded, finally noticing the ringing in his ears that had been increasing ever since he’d walked off the stage. He rubbed his temples furiously, head pounding painfully.

Five judges lined up on the stage, but only one held a microphone and the ominous slip of white paper. “It’s okay, Yuri, we’ll do fine, it’s our first year, there’s nothing to worry about...” Otabek kept up a constant stream of reassurances under his breath, his hand now on Yuri’s knee. It was strange, how quickly their roles had reversed in the past hour.

“In fifth.” The female judge’s voice rang through the concert hall. “Pianist Sara Crispino, of Italy, and violinist Michele Crispino, also of Italy.” Applause burst from the audience, and Otabek joined in briefly with a few short claps. The Italians, a dark-haired woman in a sapphire dress and her twin brother, climbed up the steps to the stage and accepted their already-engraved plaque. “In fourth. Pianist Leo de la Iglesia, of America, and violinist Guang Hong Ji, of China.” Yuri’s head shot up, and he darted a confused glance at Otabek. _Fourth?_ He watched the two boys follow the Italians’ path, matching grins on their faces as they were handed their own plaque. “In third. Pianist Jean-Jacques Leroy, of England, and violinist Isabella Yang, also of England.” Otabek and Yuri’s mouths fell open in twin reactions. Yuri gasped audibly, blinking incredulously. More applause from the crowd as the English couple walked past the others to receive their award. They weren’t smiling, Isabella’s red-lined lips pressed into a scowl and JJ’s eyes almost... brokenhearted.

“Oh my God, Otabek,” he whispered. Otabek’s eyes held a familiar expression of panic, mirrored in Yuri’s. 

“In second. Pianist Yuri Plisetsky, of Russia, and violinist Otabek Altin, of Kazakhstan.” An inhuman squeal sounded from Yuri over the clamor of the audience, and Otabek clamped a hand over the Russian’s mouth before wrapping his arms around the smaller man in a tight embrace.

“We did it,” Otabek mumbled gruffly. Yuri nodded, tears springing from his eyes. For once he didn’t mind.

“Second is good. I can live with second,” Yuri managed. Otabek gasped out a choked laugh. 

“Me too.”

They rose from their seats, approaching the stage for the second time that night. Yuri swiped surreptitiously at his eyes as the immaculate silver plaque was proffered. The two musicians shook the hands of the judges and went to stand with the other musicians.

Yuri met Isabella’s eyes, and on a split-second whim he winked. She wrinkled her nose disdainfully before turning back to JJ.

As they turned to face the audience, Yuri realized what this meant. Phichit and Seung-gil, after three years, had finally won Eurasia United. 

He couldn’t even find it in his heart to be disappointed in himself, watching them accept the glowing golden plaque. Tears streamed down Phichit’s face, his eyes shining with joy under the harsh spotlights. Even Seung-gil’s typically apathetic mouth was twisted into a smile as they took their places in front of the piano.

Cameras flashed from all angles underneath the stage lights as the judges left the stage. They stood there for what felt like hours, smiles turning stiff, until Yuri decided he’d had enough and walked off the stage. A couple of the other musicians laughed, and the rest followed after a moment, some waving happily to the crowd. 

Yuri didn’t stop walking until he was out of the concert hall and surrounded by Barcelona’s crisp night air. Though the city emanated light pollution, he could make out one or two stars speckling the deep blue sky.

“I like it here,” Otabek said behind him. Yuri turned around. He hadn’t known that the other man had followed him out.

“I think I do too,” Yuri answered honestly. He reached out, grasping the other man’s hands. “Congratulations.”

Otabek smiled. Today, Yuri must have received a record amount of smiles.

“Think you might want to do it again?” Yuri asked, leaning up on his tiptoes until he was inches away from Otabek’s face. The Kazakh’s brown eyes roamed over Yuri’s face, settled on his own sparkling green eyes.

“Again and again and again,” he replied, slipping a hand under Yuri’s chin and lifting his face up. He tilted forward, pressing his lips to Yuri’s.

Yuri closed his eyes. Though they were in a strange city, with unfamiliar people, under different stars than before, he knew he would always feel at home with his violinist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked winner!phichit/seung-gil, my baby phichit deserves the world. Also, last chapter will be an epiloque of sorts, with some explanations.


	21. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so emotionally invested in these two boys, oh my god. Also, I usually link songs in the bottom notes, but this song (not classical, actually a modern song lol who knew the day would come) reminds me so much of otayuri in this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aatr_2MstrI  
> It's Symphony, by Clean Bandit, if you wanna look it up later. The music video is SUPER SAD so if that's not your thing just focus on the lyrics if because those are nice and hopeful haha.

“I feel like I’m forgetting something. What am I forgetting?”

“Um. Coffee mug?”

Yuri snorted. “That’s not exactly high on my list of important items. I’m pretty sure you can buy a coffee mug for like, three cents at the store.”

Otabek frowned, leaning against the counter. “Well, you could have had a special one. Although--” he glanced pointedly at the sink, which held three dirty coffee cups, all with varying amounts of coffee still in them, “--you don’t seem to have a favorite, or else you’d stick to just _one_ cup.”

Yuri waltzed over to the cupboard, opening the doors with a flourish to display a row of identical white mugs. “Ah yes. My special coffee cup.” He took out one of the mugs. “So unique. Just warms my heart every morning.”

Otabek rolled his eyes, yanking on Yuri’s shirt to pull him away from the cupboard. “I thought I warmed your heart, Yura.”

Yuri mimed gagging as Otabek curled his arms around him. “Gross, Beka. I’m drowning in sap. Like one of those mosquitoes that gets caught in tree sap, and three million years later it’s fossilized amber.”

Otabek’s hands drifted up to his blonde hair, playing with the ends. “How many times did you fail Biology in high school?”

“Only once,” Yuri replied defensively. He wrinkling his nose. “How did you know I failed it?”

The other man bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Just guessed.”

Yuri pushed him gently, ducking away from his arms to walk to the living room. “I’m double-checking my suitcase.”

Once in his room, he unzipped the purple leopard-print suitcase and kneeled in front of it, absentmindedly rifling through his things. He knew he had everything, had double and triple checked his suitcase over the course of the last few days. But it was still difficult for him to digest that he was _leaving Russia_.

Only for the summer, really, and he’d left plenty of times already. It’s not like Yuri was unfamiliar with traveling or airports. Somehow, though, it seemed monumental. And, no matter how many times Yuri told himself he was being silly or overdramatic, it really was monumental. Maybe even more than moving out of his grandfather’s house, or Yakov’s house last fall. He’d still felt like a kid pretending to be an adult, living alone in a huge city and finally in charge of his career.

As the summer had drawn closer and spring became hotter and dryer in St. Petersburg, Yuri had felt that there was something fundamentally wrong with Otabek leaving. Not leaving St. Petersburg, but leaving Yuri. Eurasia United had been a transformative experience for the both of them, just a hint of what they could really do. Yuri’s fantasies about making history and becoming a truly influential musician had changed to include the both of them, and Otabek confessed to actually liking the feeling of being onstage. Well, not _liking_ , but it was becoming more bearable.

His anxiety remained a mystery to Yuri, but he was beginning to understand. As their lives became more tangled and they learned more about each other, Yuri saw how it leaked into every part of his life in subtle ways. His reserved nature, his habit of disappearing into a book for hours, even his music, both violin and DJing, were all different ways of Otabek trying to escape an indescribable pressure he felt at all times. He had tried to describe it, multiple times, but it always resulted in Otabek nearly yanking his hair out in frustration and Yuri growing increasingly alarmed until he shouted at him to stop hurting himself.

They were still learning about each other. Music helped, and silence, and long nights where they talked in hushed voices until their lips pressed sloppily together and eventually lost every article of clothing that was still clinging to their bodies. _That_ was a transformative experience for Yuri too, and admittedly a large part of why he was so reluctant to let Otabek go. The night after they returned from Barcelona, jet-lagged and hopelessly in love, had been the first. Yuri didn’t want to lose something he was just beginning to know. Otabek was always gentle and kind, but Yuri lived for the moment when his reserved nature and careful self-control faded from his brown eyes to be replaced by an ardent fervor that rivaled Yuri’s own.

In short, Yuri didn’t want to let go of any part of Otabek. So he didn’t.

One spring morning, in the middle of an unusually wet April, Yuri had slammed his coffee cup onto the counter, startling a sleepy Otabek.

“I’m coming with you,” he declared, almost threateningly. Like he’d punch Otabek if he said anything other than, “Yes, Yuri.”

Otabek had scrubbed at his tired eyes. “Are you sure--”

A magnificent eye roll from Yuri. He’d picked up the habit from Otabek, and it was there to stay. “Shut up already. I’m sure.”

“Your music--”

“Isn’t going to stay in St. Petersburg, dumbass. I’m a musical genius in any city. Remember Barcelona?”

“Yakov--”

“Knows how to work Skype. I taught him last week.” Yuri cocked an eyebrow at Otabek, waiting for another senseless excuse, before continuing. “There isn’t anything left for me in St. Petersburg, Beka. Not without you here.” That wasn’t necessarily true. He had the stupid married couple, and he’d let a hurt Mila back into his life after mumbling that yes, he’d been a dick after his grandfather died, and no, he wasn’t going to push her away again. Then he’d introduced her to Otabek. _That_ had been weird. They were polar opposites in personality, but seemed to bond over a shared love for dance mixes of classical music and sappy Victorian novels. Though Mila didn’t read them in their original English, but the Russian translations.

Another month had passed, and they’d begun packing their bags for Almaty. Nearly all of Otabek’s belongings had migrated from his dorm to Yuri’s already cluttered apartment. By the end of spring, his dorm was bare, and Yuri’s floor had disappeared entirely.

News of Otabek’s mother’s condition was grim. She wasn’t going to last very long. Liver failure was a slow and agonizing affair, and Otabek was hopelessly torn on what to feel. From what Yuri had heard, she was a terrible mother, but that didn’t stop her from being _his mother_. Yuri couldn’t relate; he’d known exactly how to feel about his grandfather’s death. His was a rock-bottom kind of sorrow, and there was only one direction to go from the bottom. Otabek’s sorrow for his mother was a maze, in which there were a thousand paths to take. The bitter path, the guilty path, the relieved path... and Otabek already struggled making decisions on things like what tea he was going to drink with his breakfast.

In due time, Yuri met Camran, Otabek’s brother, over Skype. He was a scrawny version of Otabek, gangly and long-limbed in a strange similarity with Yuri. His hair was silky and long like Yuri’s too, reaching past his shoulders, though instead of a pale blonde it was jet black. A large ring had appeared on Camran’s lip a couple weeks before the two were set to arrive in Almaty, and Otabek had never looked so traumatized, or outraged. He’d yelled something in Kazakh, face only inches away from the screen, that sounded unsettlingly like a death threat to Yuri.

Yuri thought the piercing was funny. It reminded him of the time he’d colored his hair vividly purple with Hot Topic hair dye, the night before a concert, when he was fourteen. When Yakov caught sight of him that morning, his face turned precisely the shade of Yuri’s new hair. It was still a fond memory of Yuri’s, though the hair dye had been scrubbed out immediately.

“Yuri?” Otabek called from the kitchen, jerking the Russian out of his memories. Yuri zipped his suitcase closed and rocked back on his heels, surveying the unnaturally clean bedroom. No more paperbacks or half-empty cups on the nightstand, no more animal print underwear scattered on the floor, no more sheet music peeking out from underneath pillows. Yuri had spent less than a year in this apartment, and it struck him now how lonely it seemed. He wasn’t sorry to be leaving it, though the last couple months had been infinitely better than the first months.

“Coming,” Yuri replied, yanking his stuffed suitcase down the hall. He’d already shipped down two boxes filled with clothes to Almaty, and packed the rest of his things away at the Nikiforov-Katsuki house. His piano was there, too, and the couple was under strict instructions to _never touch it_. It was one of the last strings tying Yuri to his grandfather.

Otabek stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other resting on his black suitcase handle. It looked unnecessarily somber next to Yuri’s headache-inducing purple one.

Yuri took one last look around the apartment. “Alright, let’s fucking go already.”

 

 

They arrived at 9 p.m. St. Petersburg time and midnight Almaty time. Yuri yawned into his sleeve every thirty seconds, earning amused looks from Otabek as they waited for their suitcases to roll into the baggage claim.

“It’s not even that late, Yura.”

“Airplanes make me tired. And they’re always so _dry_.”

“How does the humidity level make you tired?”

“It doesn’t, that’s just another thing that pisses me off.”

Otabek slipped his fingers into Yuri’s loose hair, brushing it back from his face. “We should make a list of all the things that piss you off.”

Yuri snorted, reaching a hand up to grab Otabek’s. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

Otabek spotted one of their bags and lurched to grab it, hand still holding Yuri’s. It was the only PDA they were both comfortable with, though neither of them had ever actually talked about it. 

Suddenly he froze, hand outstretched for the suitcase. His eyes were trained across the room, locked in place, as the suitcase slowly rotated away from his hand. Yuri stared incredulously.

Then, “Cam!” Otabek burst out, straightening up. He strode over to a lanky, black-haired boy and enveloped him in a bear hug. The boy, Camran, grinned at Yuri over Otabek’s shoulder. He was _taller_ than Otabek, by almost two inches even, though he looked like he weighed twenty pounds lighter. Yuri couldn’t help but grin back.

Otabek pulled back, glancing pointedly at Camran’s lip. “That’s disgusting, by the way.”

“I think it’s cool,” Yuri quipped, having already bounded over to the two brothers. Otabek shot him a glare.

“Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m Camran,” the boy said, holding out a hand to Yuri. Yuri took it, his neck craned up to meet Camran’s eyes. 

“How is a fifteen-year-old that much taller than me,” Yuri muttered to Otabek once Camran had ran over to grab their bags.

Otabek snorted. “Don’t worry, he’s nothing but skin and bones. Though,” he added, giving Yuri a once-over, “you’re not much more than that, either.” Yuri shoved him.

“If I was less sleep deprived, I would beat you up.”

Otabek circled his arms around a meekly protesting Yuri, pressing his lips to his forehead. “I don’t believe you for a second.”

 

 

Yuri wasn’t sure if he was asleep or awake during the long, slow drive across Almaty. He rested his head against the window, watching buildings fly past across a canvas of deep orange and red, fading to navy. The sunsets were richer here than in St. Petersburg, more fire than pastel. Numbly, as if he was in a dream, though Yuri suspected he already was, he pressed his hand against the glass and pretended he was pinning the colors in place underneath his hand. Saving them for a rainy day.

The soft, murmuring voices of the brothers wound in and out of Yuri’s dream like the track of a rotating record player. He only caught a word every couple minutes, but it seemed like the meaningful kind of small talk that only happens when two very close people are too tired to take on the challenges of the future. Talking about the weather takes on a new significance when the only other option is talking about a hospitalized mother, slowly wasting away from liver failure.

On the precipice of sleep, Yuri’s thoughts strayed to the future. He’d been deeply entrenched in the past for the last couple months, thinking over his life up to this point, but the fresh sounds and smells of Almaty tugged him away from memories and towards new experiences.

_Yes_ , Yuri thought to himself, eyes fluttering closed. The red light of the sunset caught Yuri’s hair on fire, setting his face aglow. Otabek’s gaze tore away from the road and rested on Yuri for a long moment, as if his thoughts were spoken aloud. _I could be happy here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you guys liked this fic!! thank you all for your kind compliments and support <3 if y'all didn't know, I have a tumblr at pastel-plisetsky.tumblr.com  
> also, i have a shit ton of new fic ideas running through my head, including but not limited to: something cute with phichit, either phichit/yuuri, phichit/guang hong, or maybe even phichit/guang hong/leo bc i am pro polyamory. OR a rivals au (in the skatingverse tho) with otayuri, like rivals to lovers?? which i'm pretty into at the moment. OR a track & field otayuri au just because that's my sport and i love it haha. tell me what you think if you want


End file.
